The Case of the Spectral Stalker
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Perry's friend Jerry Reynolds is the victim of a cruel plot to either make him seem insane or make him go insane: he sees a murdered Air Force officer wherever he goes. Who's behind it? And why? Perry, Della, Hamilton, and the rest have their hands full.
1. Stalker

**Perry Mason**

**The Case of the Spectral Stalker**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters from the show are not mine and the other characters and the story are! This story is part of my **_**Perry**_** mystery series, but the previous installments shouldn't have to be read first to understand this one. (And the little oneshot I previously wrote has no real connection with this story at all.) Today we visit with characters from season 4's **_**The Misguided Missile**_**. Also, I leave a little reminder that I've moved the time period to the present day, but I don't think it disrupts anything. It does alter which wars the characters fought in, but that's such a minor plot point.**

**Chapter One**

It had been raining heavily in Los Angeles for several hours. Della stood on the corner, holding an umbrella over her head as she waited for her cab.

Her car just _had_ to break down at the most unreliable times. She rarely used it as it was, since Perry picked her up for work and took her home. And when she needed her own car it was often in the shop or dying on the road.

She looked at her watch in agitation. Perry had been expecting her back with the information he had sent her to retrieve for their latest case. She was over an hour late.

At last she perked up. A yellow cab was pulling up to the curb. She stepped back, not wanting to be splashed on by the pools of water in the gutter.

The right rear door opened and a distinguished man alighted. Della regarded him in surprise. From the insignia and decorations on his coat, he was an honored officer in the United States Air Force.

Noticing her, he held the door open. "Miss?"

Della snapped to her senses. "Thank you," she said, climbing into the warm backseat. The mysterious man nodded and shut the door after her. Then, as Della watched in amazement, he opened an umbrella and started down the street.

"Military man," the cab driver commented. "I don't see a lot of them in here."

"Who is he?" Della asked, curious.

"Honestly, I have no idea," he said. "My passengers hardly ever give their names, just addresses. And when they pay me in cash instead of with a check or a card, well . . ." He shrugged. "They're free to remain completely anonymous.

"So, where can I take you?"

"The Brent building, please," Della requested.

"You got it." The driver pulled away from the curb.

As he headed up the street, Della looked towards the sidewalk. The Air Force officer had already disappeared.

She leaned back. "That was odd," she said to herself. "How did he get away so fast? All the buildings here are closed."

But within five minutes she was no longer thinking about it. She had other things to worry about.

xxxx

Perry was unable to sit still. He got up, paced his office, looked out the balcony doors at the rain, and came back to his desk. Della had called to tell him she would be late getting back. Gertie had taken the message, as Perry had still been in court at the time. But now it was dark and court was out for the evening. It had been out for over an hour, in fact. And Della was still not back.

He grabbed for the receiver. Maybe he should call her.

Before he could make good on that decision the phone rang. He snapped it up. "Hello?" he almost barked.

"_Perry!"_

He frowned. It was not Della's voice, but it was familiar. It was also hysterical. He could not place it. "Who is this?" he demanded.

"Jerry Reynolds."

Of course. His friend Major Jerry Reynolds, stationed at Vandenberg Air Force Base. Perry perked up. "Jerry, what's wrong? I barely recognized your voice."

"Perry, I'm being stalked."

"Stalked?" Perry was in disbelief. "By whom?"

"Well, that's the thing. I'm afraid you'll think I'm crazy if I tell you. _I _think I'm crazy!"

"Jerry, you're one of the most sound people I know," Perry said. "Where are you? The base?"

"No, I'm in town," Jerry said. "That's also part of it. I'm on leave because my C.O. thought I should get away for a while. But it hasn't helped. The man stalking me followed me here!"

Perry frowned deeply. "Don't keep me in suspense," he said. "You sound like you know who this man is."

"It's hard to explain at all, but especially over the phone. Can I see you tonight? Maybe in ten minutes?"

Perry raised an eyebrow. "Of course," he said. "Come to my office."

The relief in Jerry's voice was evident. "Thank you, Perry. I'll be right there."

Perry was left with the dial tone. He hung up, shaking his head. "Strange," he said to the room. He glanced to the aquarium against the opposite wall, idly watching the fish swim about as he considered what he had just been told.

He and Jerry had been friends for years. They had been in combat together during the Gulf War. After the war, and when Jerry's term of service was up, he had decided to stay on and make a career out of the military. Perry had left, pursuing law instead. They had kept in touch ever since.

Several years ago Perry had visited Vandenberg Air Force Base on Jerry's request. He had been just in time for a case involving a misguided missile and for Jerry to end up accused of the murder of an investigator from the inspector general's office. The situation had only been made stickier by the fact that Jerry and the investigator, Captain Michael Caldwell, had once been friends but had parted ways due to an unsolved mystery that had resulted in hurt feelings and pride on both sides. They had not been on good terms since then. But Perry had cleared Jerry, and as far as Perry knew, Jerry had been doing alright since then.

The door flew open, admitting a harried Della. Unbuttoning her damp coat, she took out a dry folder and set it on his desk. "Here's the information you wanted, Perry," she said, still catching her breath.

Perry took it. "It took a while for your cab to come," he observed. "I was getting worried." He flipped it open and began skimming through the contents.

"The nearest driver was delayed," Della said. "He was driving someone in the Air Force to the same spot where he picked me up."

Perry looked up with a start. "It wasn't Jerry Reynolds, by any chance?"

Della shook her head. "I've never seen him before," she said. "He was very polite. He held the door for me and then closed it before leaving." She paused and blinked. "Why would it have been Jerry?"

"Because he's in town," Perry said. "He said someone's stalking him. He's coming over to discuss it." He perked up at the sound of the front door opening. "That's probably him now."

Della turned and looked through her office's open door and into the reception room. "It is," she said in surprise. "As Paul says, there's never a dull moment."

She stepped into her office. "Hello, Jerry," she greeted with a smile. "Perry's waiting for you."

"Oh good," Jerry said, obviously occupied. "Thank you, Miss Street." He hurried past and into Perry's office, shutting the door after him.

Della raised an eyebrow. Then, shrugging, she started to get out of her coat.

In the office, Perry was frowning at Jerry's uncharacteristic agitation. "Alright, I think I've been waiting long enough," he said after greetings had been exchanged. "Tell me what's going on! And try to sit down and relax!"

Jerry sighed. "I've been trying that for days, Perry," he said. "It's not working." He started to pace the room. At last he stopped, looking towards Perry at the desk. "I'm being stalked by a dead man!"

Perry went rigid. "You'd better start at the beginning," he said.

Jerry straightened and crossed to the chair in front of the desk. "It started several weeks ago," he said. "I noticed a figure just outside the base. Well, civilians aren't supposed to be that close without clearance, as you well know. So I went over to the gate for a better look. Only by the time I got there, no one was around. I went out and looked for almost an hour and never found anyone.

"A few days later I got a phone call. When I answered, a voice asked if I was Major Reynolds. I said Yes. Then I heard something like a groan and the connection cut off."

Perry frowned. "Did you recognize the voice?"

"I wasn't sure. I thought I did, but I couldn't place it. It sounded . . . both muffled and pained."

"Or sick, perhaps?" Perry supplied.

"Perhaps," Jerry nodded. "It wasn't until another week later that I saw _him._"

"Him?" Perry repeated.

Jerry looked at Perry, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and haunted. "I was surveying the area for our next test launch when he came staggering out from behind some crates. He stood there for a long moment, just staring at me while I stared back. He was gripping the top crate, as though he needed it to keep himself balanced. Finally I said something. It seemed to snap him back to himself and give him a burst of adrenaline or something. He turned and ran. I chased him all over the test area and through a hangar, but he got away."

"What did you say?" Perry asked.

"His name." Jerry leaned forward, taking off his hat and digging his hands into his hair. "It was him. I knew it was him, even though it _couldn't_ be him.

"Well, I saw him a couple more times—lost him both times—and the last time my C.O. found out about it. He talked to me, had me talk to the base psychiatrist, and they decided to ship me out here for a week or two while they tried to get to the bottom of it. But they _can't_ get to the bottom of it!" He straightened, looking to Perry with wild eyes. "They _can't,_ because he's out here too! He followed me here! I just saw him about thirty minutes ago on the street! But when we saw each other he turned and ran again, just like before." He slumped back in the chair. "I'm losing my mind, Perry. I don't know what to do anymore! Obviously I'm not fit to be in the Air Force."

"Just a minute," Perry interrupted. "You still haven't told me this man's name."

"It's Mike," Jerry said miserably. "Captain Mike Caldwell."

Perry stared at him. He had been thinking that Jerry must have seen someone only assumed dead, perhaps a friend long listed as Missing In Action. But this was completely different. This was indeed _impossible._

"Jerry," he said at last, speaking seriously and gently, "it couldn't be Captain Caldwell."

"I know!" Jerry burst out, throwing his hands in the air. "I know it couldn't be!" He leaned forward. "I saw his body, Perry. I was the one who found him lying on that test field after Dan Morgan murdered him. I saw that the left side of his head was bashed in!" He slumped back, shaking his head. "There was no mistake. It was Caldwell and he was dead."

His eyes hardened. "And there's no mistake now. I've been seeing him everywhere. The last thing he looks is dead."

Perry picked up a pen and began toying with it. "I don't doubt your word, Jerry," he said. "You're seeing someone, obviously someone who looks a great deal like Caldwell." He set the pen down and looked up. "Considering all that you've told me, someone may very well be doing this to you on purpose, wanting you to think Caldwell is haunting you, wanting you to feel that you're going insane. Perhaps someone who is trying to rout you out of your position at Vandenberg."

Jerry sat up straight. "I knew you'd be able to start making sense out of this, Perry," he said. "What you're saying might be true. Except other than Caldwell and Dan Morgan, I can't even think of anyone who'd have anything to gain from it."

"We'll figure it out," Perry vowed.

"It would help if someone else had seen him too," Jerry said. "Then at least we could prove I'm not crazy."

The soft knock on the door brought their attention up. "Come in," Perry called.

Della eased the door open slightly and peeked in. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, "but . . ." She looked a bit awkward. "I couldn't help hearing some of what you've been talking about."

". . . Oh." Jerry looked down. "I'm sorry. I got carried away and yelled too loud."

"Oh no, it's alright," Della said quickly. "I'm the only other person who heard. And . . . well, what did Captain Caldwell look like?"

Jerry opened his left front pocket and fumbled with a newspaper clipping before drawing it out. "I found this and took it to compare it with the man I've been seeing," he said. "It's a perfect match."

Della took it, her eyes going wide at the image. "I saw him tonight!" she exclaimed.

Perry was instantly alert. "The man coming out of the cab?"

"Yes!" Della nodded. "I'm positive. And he certainly wasn't a ghost."

Perry grabbed for the phone. "Jerry, what's your commanding officer's number?" he asked. "We need to make him understand that the danger here is not in your mind."

xxxx

Hamilton sighed, pulling his coat closer around him as he took an evening paper out of the box. It was a cold and blustery January night. The rain was letting up for now, but according to the weather forecast it was going to carry on to varying degrees all through the night. He wanted to get home before it grew violent again. Climbing back into his car, he dropped the paper on the passenger seat and pulled away from the curb.

Los Angeles was still recovering from the bizarre earthquakes of over a month ago. Most of the structural damage had been mended, but there were still people's lives that had been disrupted and not repaired. For some, they would never get that chance. And as for Vivalene, one of the causes of the disaster, she was still completely unresponsive in the prison hospital ward.

Hamilton was not sure what to think of it. It was like a bad dream or a kid's bedtime story. Vivalene and her cronies had used some kind of ancient box to cast a spell across Los Angeles County that caused almost everyone to forget some or all of their memories. Only he and Paul had remembered everything and had strove to get the others to remember too. Before the end of the disaster several people had nearly died, including he himself. The final result was that Vivalene's cruel spells had backfired on her and now she was in a coma, a coma that could apparently only be broken by someone who cared enough about her personally to revive her.

Hamilton did not want to think about that last part at all. He wanted to think it was a coma that was not brought on by magic. He wanted to say there was no such thing.

But he had given up saying that, at least about everything connected with that mess. He tried to think about it as little as possible. That, however, was difficult when the situation had affected him and the others so deeply. Lieutenant Tragg, Mignon Germaine, and young Howie Peterson were especially still shaken after what had happened and what they had said and done.

The sight of a man in his headlights forced him to slam on the brakes, his eyes wide in shock. The stranger brought his hands down hard on the hood, as if to brace himself. His dark hair was wild and wet, the loose pieces slipping into his eyes.

Hamilton opened the door and stepped out. "Are you out of your mind?" he cried. "What are you doing, running into the street like that? You could've been killed!"

The haunted, panicked look in the man's eyes made him take a step back. Instead of answering, he straightened and ran past, vanishing into the night.

"Hey!" Hamilton called. "Come back!"

But the stranger had no intention of doing so. And Hamilton had no intention of leaving his car in the middle of the street to chase after him on foot. Muttering to himself, he got back inside and drove on. Hopefully that guy would not get in the way of any more moving vehicles tonight.

He might not be so lucky a second time.


	2. Scientist

**Notes: I made some slight adjustments to Perry and Hamilton's conversation. And the doctor character being discussed is mine.** **Chapter Two**

Jerry was pacing around Perry's office again, waiting while Perry was on hold to speak with his C.O. He rubbed the back of his neck, overwhelmed.

"I just don't understand it," he said. "Why would someone do this to me now? And why would they send someone to impersonate Caldwell? Why _him,_ of all people?"

Perry held the phone slightly away from his ear. "Perhaps they thought seeing his ghost would affect you the most?" he suggested. "Since you'd been accused of killing him, I mean."

"Maybe, but he's been dead for several years now," Jerry frowned.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember what your past was with Captain Caldwell," Della spoke up. "Could that have anything to do with it?"

"I doubt it," Jerry said. "We were friends, more or less. At least I thought so. Maybe we never really were. After Caldwell didn't follow that order I gave him on that important mission in Bosnia, and claimed over and over he never got it, he was bitter towards me. He said I was lying to save face and that I must have not sent any order."

"Is there any chance he really _didn't_ get your order?" Perry wondered.

"There was an investigation," Jerry said. "All of our equipment was working perfectly. He got that order, alright. He just didn't see the importance of following it."

"That seems strange," Perry said. "I thought he was a good air man."

"He was," Jerry admitted. "But even when we were . . . associating, we had a rivalry going. If he thought he knew better, sometimes he'd do something different than what I'd told him. He was reprimanded for that more than once. That's probably why he wasn't believed this other time. Only . . ." He frowned.

"What is it?" Perry asked.

"He never lied before," Jerry before. "He was always frank about it when he did his own thing. I just figured he knew he'd be in serious trouble for doing it again—which he was—so he decided to make up that story about never getting my order."

"I see," Perry said.

Something in his voice sounded unconvinced. Jerry frowned. "Perry, you don't think he really could have been telling the truth," he objected.

"I honestly couldn't say," Perry said. "There could have been some kind of malfunction or interference that wasn't found later. Maybe someone even wanted to get you and Caldwell on the outs. If your enemy is in the Air Force, maybe he was at work way back then."

"I never thought of that," Jerry said in surprise. "Of course, I didn't have to think I had any enemies besides Caldwell and Dan Morgan until now."

At last there was a click on the phone. Perry came to attention. "Hello? Colonel Barton?"

"I'm sorry," a woman's voice answered. "Colonel Barton is in an important meeting right now. I can't disturb him."

Perry frowned. "This is important too," he said. He looked to Della, his expression saying clearly, _I was on hold for twenty minutes, just to be told this?_

"If you'd like to leave a message, he'll call back when he's able."

"Yes, I would," said Perry. "Tell him to call Perry Mason as soon as possible." He left his phone number and hung up.

"That's strange," Della said.

"For all I know, they're having a meeting about me," Jerry grumbled.

Perry sighed. "So you can't think of anyone who might be out to get you," he said. "It could even be someone whose complaint you thought was insignificant at the time."

Jerry shrugged. "Well, sure, there were guys from way back who were a pain. Most of them I haven't heard from in years."

"Name them anyway," Perry instructed.

"Dan Brinkle," Jerry said. "And . . . Elmer Lewis." He shook his head. "I can't think of anyone else. But Perry, I really don't think they'd come up with a complex plot like this, just to get back at me. I don't think they'd be capable of it anyway. At least not Dan."

"Sometimes they're the ones you have to watch out for the most," Perry returned. "Are they still in the Air Force?"

"They could be," Jerry said. "I honestly don't know. I haven't heard anything about them in years."

Perry tapped his pencil on the notepad. "Della, see what you can find out about them," he said, occupied.

Della nodded. "I'll see what I can do," she promised, heading back to her office.

Perry looked back to Jerry. "You know, it bothers me how this man keeps running from you. Why?"

"Who knows. He probably doesn't want me to catch up and see he isn't a ghost." Jerry frowned. "I get your point, though. It's strange. And so is the way he looks so sick half the time."

"The way Della described him, he was feeling just fine," Perry remarked.

"I'd say she was seeing someone else altogether, if that wasn't too far-fetched," Jerry said. "One double of Caldwell is more than enough. There couldn't be two, not in the same place. And not both wearing Air Force uniforms.

"It must have been my stalker on the phone that time, too. When I thought about it later, it did sound like Caldwell's voice. I didn't even consider that at the time, since he was . . . well, _dead._"

"You said he asked if he was talking to Major Reynolds and then groaned and hung up when you confirmed it," Perry said.

"Just like how he keeps running when we meet up," Jerry said.

"It's almost as if he doesn't really want to talk with you," Perry remarked. "But that doesn't make sense. Why would he seek you out if he didn't intend to talk?"

"I can't figure it out," Jerry said.

"Well, we'd better figure it out, and soon," said Perry. "Your life might depend on it."

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg sighed, setting aside a mug of hot chocolate on the kitchen table. It had been a long day, made longer by the rain and by his unwelcome memories.

It had been over a month, but sometimes he still thought the sounds of the house should be Maureen walking down the halls and through the rooms. And yet that had not been Maureen anyway, but a cruel fraud. For the second time he had been romanced by Vivalene, only he had not even known it was she. She had managed to get her talons into him, literally warping and controlling his mind with the power in her box. And what he had done as a result had nearly killed at least two of his dearest friends.

"Uncle Arthur! What's wrong?"

He looked up with a start as Lucy came into the kitchen and sat at the table. Smiling at her, Tragg pushed aside his feelings of betrayal. The guilt, however, lingered.

"Why, nothing's wrong, Lucy," he said. "What makes you think so?"

She crossed her arms on the table. "Uncle Arthur, after living with you all these years, don't you think I could tell? It's about that woman, isn't it."

Tragg finally exhaled in resignation. "Yes, it is," he admitted. "And I don't have time for such nonsense. It's past and done with."

"You said there was some strange murder today," Lucy said, "and that you'll be working overtime because of it. Do you think it has anything to do with her?"

"Oh no," Tragg hurried to say. "No, I don't. Vivalene isn't in any condition to arrange something like that."

"But you have some idea who did it?" Lucy wondered.

"Only a vague thought," Tragg said. "I'm trying to get in touch with a friend of mine in Oregon for confirmation or denial."

"Are you working with Andy or Lieutenant Drumm?" Lucy queried.

"With Andy," Tragg acknowledged. From his tone of voice, there was more to it than that.

Lucy sighed. "Oh Uncle Arthur, Steve doesn't blame you for what happened!"

"No, but I almost got him killed when I drove the car into that tree branch," Tragg said, bitterness saturating his voice. "I knew what I was doing, but I couldn't control myself."

"You could have killed yourself too, for that matter," Lucy said. "How do you even work with Mr. Burger when you feel the way you do?"

"Very awkwardly," Tragg said. "But blast it all, Lucy! Let's find something else to talk about."

Usually Lucy was agreeable to changing the subject. Tonight was not one of her usual moods.

"No," she countered. "Uncle Arthur, I'm worried about you!" She reached across the table, laying her hand over his. "I want to know you're going to be alright. I want to know your friendships aren't going to suffer because of this. Mr. Burger and Lieutenant Drumm mean a lot to you. Of course, that's a lot of why you're upset, but I mean, this shouldn't mean that you won't be able to feel like being with them ever again."

Tragg pushed his chair back from the table. "Please, Lucy, not now," he implored. The pain in his eyes and his voice made Lucy rock back, silenced. He stood, taking up his hat. "I need to get back to the office."

Lucy got up as well, guilt-stricken. "Uncle Arthur . . ." She ran around the table, grabbing his arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it worse!"

Tragg looked to her, managing a fond, sincere smile. "I know," he said, patting her hand. "But don't worry about me, Lucy. I'll be alright. Hamilton and Steve don't blame me. The key is figuring out how to not blame myself. I just need some more time."

Lucy bit her lip but stepped back. "Alright," she said, softly. "Be careful." She kissed his cheek and tried to smile. "Chasing down these mysterious murderers is dangerous!"

"Well, I've had a lot of experience," Tragg said.

He pulled his hat over his eyes as he stepped into the rainy January night. He had not wanted to tell Lucy his suspicions about the murderer. From the condition of the body, it had almost looked like it had been heavily probed and examined. And that had made him think of a mad doctor who had vanished some time back. Long ago booted out of the American Medical Association, she had continued her research on her own. More often than not, her "research" had consisted of experiments to explore and torment the human mind and discover its limits. Several people had gone mad from being imprisoned by her. Others had not been able to take it and had given up the ghost. The friend he was trying to locate in Oregon was familiar with at least two of her case subjects and should be able to tell him more.

He hoped it was not that woman. If she was back, and had set up shop in Los Angeles, who knew how many people under his jurisdiction would be hurt before she was stopped.

xxxx

Della sighed. For all her efforts, they now knew what had become of the only two people Jerry had mentioned who had once had ill feelings towards him. Dan Brinkle was dead, killed in combat in Afghanistan. And Elmer Lewis was now stationed in Tokyo, where he claimed to not remember Jerry Reynolds at all. It had taken a good deal of prodding before he had finally snapped to and seemed to recollect the Major.

Perry was not much more pleased than she was. "He could be lying, of course," he said, tossing the notepad aside with a cursory glare.

"But you don't think so," Della said.

"Not really. He seemed genuinely bewildered. Whatever past grudge he had doesn't seem to bother him much now." Perry sighed, slumping back in the chair. "I didn't like sending Jerry back to the hotel with so little to go on, but he needs to try to rest if he can."

"Well, Pete Kelton will be with him in case that man comes back," Della said. "And maybe Paul will have some luck tracking down the impostor. If we could get hold of him, he might tell us something."

Perry nodded. "We can only hope."

The jangling of the phone instantly brought him and Della to attention. Could Colonel Barton have received the message and be returning the call? Perry did not wait to find out. He grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

To his surprise, it was a familiar voice that answered him. "Hello, Perry."

Perry leaned back. "Hamilton," he greeted. He and Della exchanged a stymied look. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you tonight." While he and Hamilton were close friends, they did not tend to call each other for no particular reason. And right now, Perry could not imagine what Hamilton's reason might be.

"You didn't think I'd call to gloat after our day in court?" Hamilton returned with a chuckle. "Nevermind; I called for an important reason.

"Perry, have you ever heard of Alice Portman?"

With a raised eyebrow Perry replied, "No, I can't say that I have. Who is she?"

"Well, in layman's terms, she seems to be a mad scientist. Tragg and Andy have been investigating a dead body today that looks like her work. Andy just came by to tell me that a policewoman friend of Tragg's in Oregon confirmed that it could very well be one of her latest victims."

Perry tapped the eraser of a pencil on the desk. "That's very interesting," he said. "And disturbing. But I'm curious, Hamilton. Why are you telling me about this?"

A sigh. "Perry, I think your client might know something about it."

Now he had Perry's full attention. Perry sat up straight, his eyes narrowed in stunned amazement and disbelief. "What?" he cried. "Why?"

"Remember that strange metal chip she was carrying that no one could identify and she refused to explain?"

"Yes," Perry said.

"The medical examiner just found one of them inside the dead body. It's identical to the one Elaine Darrow had."

Perry stiffened. "Hamilton, are you sure?"

"Positive, Perry. Andy showed me the two chips, side by side."

Perry got up, still holding the phone. "Then I want to see Elaine immediately," he declared.

"I thought you would. Larry Germaine's at the jail right now, trying to get her to talk. She's been so close-lipped from the start I doubt he'll have much luck."

"I don't know that I will either, but I'm certainly going to try," Perry said. "Thank you for letting me know."

"I just thought you should have all the facts before the hearing reconvenes tomorrow."

"And you probably hoped Elaine might crack and tell me what she won't tell your office," Perry added.

"Okay, you got me there," Hamilton said. "But this is important, Perry. If she knows this Alice Portman, it could change the whole scope of the case."

"Maybe," Perry said, noncommittal. "Alright, Hamilton. I'll see you tomorrow, unless I learn something that you should know beforehand."

"And I can't decide if I want there to be such a thing for you or learn or not," Hamilton said, the frown obvious in his voice. "I hate to think your client might be mixed up with someone like Alice Portman." He paused. "Is anything wrong? Besides what I just told you, I mean."

Perry sighed. "I'm afraid it is," he admitted. "Jerry Reynolds is out here from the Air Force base, and he has quite a problem. At this point I don't think I can tell you what it is."

"Then I won't ask," Hamilton said. "I guess you have your plate full."

"Quite," Perry said.

"I'll let you go," Hamilton told him. "Good luck."

"Thank you," Perry returned.

Della was staring when he hung up. "What was that all about?"

Perry was already grabbing for his hat and coat. "Possible trouble," he said. "I have to see Elaine Darrow."

"Tonight?" Della exclaimed, hurrying after him.

"Tonight," Perry echoed. "I'll tell you about it on the way. Oh, and bring that folder of information you picked up earlier."

xxxx

Jerry was restless. He paced the hotel room, unable to make himself hold still. Paul's operative Pete Kelton watched in bemused dismay.

"Try to relax," he said. "Mr. Mason was hoping you could rest."

"That's easy for him to say," Jerry retorted. "He isn't being stalked by a dead man. I keep wondering when and where I'm going to hear from him again."

Pete sighed. "Maybe you even won't," he said.

"After he followed me to Los Angeles? Oh no, he'll be back," Jerry retorted.

He went into the bathroom, as much to be alone as to splash water on his face. He was grateful for Perry's thoughtfulness, but he did not know how much good Pete was going to do. And since Pete was a stranger to him, it was particularly difficult to be comfortably alone with his thoughts. Not that his thought process would be comfortable in any case.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. When he had found Mike's body on that test field those years back and realized that he was dead, he had not even known what to feel. His immediate reaction had been stunned shock and horror, especially considering the state the body had been left in. No one deserved that end.

As time had gone on and he had fully let it sink in that Mike was dead without them finding a resolution to their problems, he had not known what else to think. He still believed that Mike had lied about never receiving his order. And if alive, Mike probably would have continued to insist that Jerry was lying. Jerry had not actively considered it for years, and even back then, he had not really believed Mike's story. But Perry had made him think. Suppose, just suppose Mike had been telling the truth. He would have had plenty of reason to feel betrayed, just as Jerry had felt.

"Did I do wrong by you, Mike?" Jerry asked aloud as he reached for a towel.

The phone's sharp ring was most unexpected. Jerry jumped a mile before hurrying out to it. "I'll get it," he told Pete, and snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Major Reynolds?"

Jerry tensed, a cold chill going down his spine. It was the voice from the previous call. And now, under the pain and the heavy breathing, he recognized it all too well as that of Captain Michael Caldwell.

"Who is this?" he demanded. "What do you want?"

"What I want doesn't matter," was the half-barked reply. "Get out of there, Major Reynolds. Find a different place to stay before I come in and do something I regret."

The _click_ sounded loud and clear in Jerry's ear.


	3. Confessions

**Chapter Three**

Hamilton was troubled as he set aside the phone. He stayed on the couch in his living room, pondering to himself.

Perry had definitely been worried. Whether that was more about Jerry Reynolds or Elaine Darrow, Hamilton just did not know.

And Perry had mentioned Jerry was in the Air Force. Hamilton had not realized it until just now, but so was the man who had run into the road tonight. Or at least, he had been wearing that type of uniform and decorations. It surely could not have any connection; after all, there were thousands of servicemen in the Los Angeles area. Still, it was an odd coincidence. Maybe he should mention it to Perry on the off chance it was important.

Meanwhile, he was concerned about something else as well. When Andy had come to him, he had mentioned that he and Tragg were both working the case. Hamilton wanted to believe it did not mean anything, that Tragg had not stopped in himself or with Andy, but he was afraid it was yet another link in a cruel chain Tragg had been building against himself. Andy had seemed worried about something too, if Hamilton had interpreted the look in his eyes correctly.

Hamilton leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. How could they help Tragg get over his guilt and horror over what he had caused? They had talked with him and then given him his space. Maybe now it was time to try talking again.

Mignon, also still haunted herself, had been making better progress. Knowing Hamilton did not blame her and had forgiven her for any hurt she had caused had done a great deal towards helping her heal. She had not distanced herself from him.

But no matter the hurt she felt she had brought, she at least did not think she was responsible for almost killing him or anyone else. That definitely was a heavy burden for Tragg to carry.

It had been such a bizarre and heart-rending experience on so many levels.

And of all the unexpected things to come out of it, he and Paul seemed to be friends now. He had long considered Paul a friend but had been sure Paul did not reciprocate. Paul had told him when the mess was over that he had not thought he had, either. But subconsciously, he had known that they were friends. The calamity had finally jolted him into realizing it on a conscious level.

The ringing phone startled him out of his thoughts. He grabbed up the receiver. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was muffled. "Forget what you saw tonight."

Hamilton sat up straight. "What? Who is this?" he demanded. "Why should I forget?"

"Some of your friends are still shaken by things they've said and done," the voice continued. "Don't give them reason to be more upset than they already are."

"So now you're dragging them into it?" Hamilton snapped. "If your problem is with me, _keep_ it with me. Leave them alone!"

He was ignored. "Don't tell Perry Mason or anyone else about the man who ran in front of your car. He is nothing to you."

The dial tone greeted him in the next moment. In disbelieving disgust he pulled the phone away from his ear, glaring at it.

That person was an idiot, he decided. Now he was more determined than ever to find out what was going on with that mysterious man.

xxxx

Elaine Darrow was silent and sullen as she was led into the room where Perry and Della were waiting to talk with her. Della noticed the bit of fear that flickered in her eyes.

"What do you want to talk about, Mr. Mason?" Elaine asked. "If what happened in court today is an example of how this hearing is going to go, I'm not too confident that you can get me off after all."

"The hearing is going this way partially because you won't volunteer the proper information that could help you," Perry said sternly. "Do you know what the police have found tonight?"

"No," Elaine said, a bit snippy. "How would I know that, unless the guards decided to gossip around me?"

Perry did not comment. "They found a metal chip identical to the one you were carrying when you were arrested," he said. "It was inside a dead body."

Elaine stiffened. ". . . Well, I've been in here," she said. "I couldn't have done it."

"Elaine," Della said gently, "we need to know about the chips. Where did you get the one you had?"

Elaine averted her eyes. "I can't talk about it," she said.

"Elaine, the district attorney is going to try to connect you with this new murder if you don't do anything to clear yourself," Perry said. "He'll say you must know the person who committed it. He may even try to get the man you're accused of killing exhumed to check for one of these chips."

That brought Elaine upright with a jerk. "He didn't have one!" she cried. "I took the one he was supposed to have!"

Della stared in shock, her mouth opening. Surprise flashed through Perry's eyes. "Tell us about it," he said. When Elaine was quiet again, Perry persisted, "Does it have anything to do with a woman named Alice Portman?"

Now he had hit another nerve. Elaine's stubbornness crumbled. "Yes," she choked out. "It had everything to do with her."

Perry waited, certain that now she would talk. At last she looked up, her eyes visibly red from past tears. "I worked for her," she admitted. "Not long, but long enough to realize that she wasn't the benevolent scientist she tried to paint herself as being."

"What was she doing with the chips?" Perry queried.

"Experimenting with mind-control," Elaine said. "The chips were operated by a remote device. I don't really understand how they worked beyond that. But as soon as I realized what Dr. Portman was doing, I wanted out. She wouldn't let me go. And when she found out I'd taken the chip from her latest subject, she wanted to put it inside me instead." She shook her head. "I don't know how I got away. . . ."

"Is Alice Portman in Los Angeles?" Perry reached across the table. "Look at me, Elaine. This is very important."

"I don't know!" Elaine exclaimed. "She was in the Mojave Desert. I thought she was going to San Diego, if anywhere. If she's in Los Angeles she's probably coming after me!"

"What about the man whose body you were found with?" Perry demanded.

"Well, I . . . I took him with me," Elaine said. "He wasn't feeling well, so I wanted to get him to a real hospital with qualified doctors. And . . . and . . ." She trembled. "I don't know what happened! He just got sicker and sicker and finally he died when we got to Los Angeles! That . . . that was when the police found us."

Della laid a hand on Elaine's arm, looking to Perry in concern. Perry leaned back. "Is this the whole truth this time, Elaine?" he asked.

"Yes, yes!" Elaine sobbed. "Every word of it."

"Alright," Perry said after a moment. "That's all. You can go, Elaine."

Elaine pushed herself up from the table and shuffled towards the waiting matron at the door. Perry and Della stood as well.

"Do you believe her, Perry?" Della asked, keeping her voice low.

"I believe her," Perry nodded. "Even though her claims sound fantastic. Mind-control?" He sighed. "Hamilton isn't going to like this."

"Well, just because Portman was supposedly experimenting with mind-control doesn't mean she had any success," Della said.

"True," Perry consented. "And after what happened to us last month, Hamilton surely can't dismiss it as completely fabricated nonsense, as much as he might like to."

As they left the jail his phone rang without warning. He pulled it out, quickly answering. "Hello?"

"Perry, I just heard from him again," came Jerry's upset voice.

Perry tensed. "Your stalker? What did he say?"

"He told me to get out and find a new place to go, before he came in and did something he'd regret," Jerry said. "He called the phone in the hotel room. Obviously he knows exactly where I am."

"Is Pete Kelton still with you?" Perry asked.

"Yes," Jerry said.

"Go to my office," Perry said. "Della and I had to step out to see about something concerning a client, but we should be back in a few minutes."

"He'll probably know we're there, too," Jerry groaned.

"Come in the service entrance," Perry said.

"Alright." Jerry sighed. "I'll see you in a few minutes, Perry."

Once again Della regarded Perry in surprised confusion as he hung up. "More trouble?" she said.

Perry nodded. "Jerry's stalker keeps close tabs on him, for a man who continually runs away. I don't like this. I don't like it at all." He opened the car door for Della. "If we can't figure out what's going on soon, something serious might happen. Something that can't be fixed."

"Do you think Jerry might be killed?" Della gasped as she slid into the car.

"I'm afraid that might be the goal, after what the stalker said to Jerry on the phone a few minutes ago." Perry walked around and got in the driver's side.

xxxx

Paul frowned, stuffing his hands in his trenchcoat pockets. "Of all the nights to be out," he muttered to himself. The air was cold, the puddles prominent, and the scent of rain still heavy. The next storm could burst upon him any minute.

He had begun his search for the mystery man by going to where he had been let out by the cab driver. He had questioned everyone up and down the block, but no one recalled seeing such a person. And the cabbie, when Paul had tracked him down, had not been able to tell him much more than he had told Della. Not knowing what else to do, Paul had wandered up and down several other nearby blocks inquiring of the people and had at last found his way into a residential neighborhood.

A phone call jerked him out of his thoughts. "Hello?" he said, pulling out his car phone.

"Paul, this is Perry," came the reply. "Where are you?"

"I've been all over the place," Paul retorted. "And I haven't had any luck. No one can tell me about your Air Force stalker!"

"I need you to get to my office immediately," Perry said. "The stalker contacted Jerry again, and threatened him. I told him to go with Pete back to the Brent building. I want you to be there too."

"I'm on it," Paul said. He hung up and climbed into the car, reaching for the ignition key. He would have to hurry. It could take him a while to get back downtown, and that stalker would probably follow Jerry and Pete back to the Brent building.

Or would he? Paul had just turned on his headlights to leave when a figure darted across the street. A figure in some kind of a uniform.

Paul was turning off the engine and leaping out of the car in the next instant. "Hey!" he yelled. "Stop!"

The other man did not acknowledge him. He tore over someone's lawn and through their backyard, jumping the fence into another. Paul gave chase, following the man to the front of the house on the next block and across the road, where he vanished in a yard.

Frustrated, Paul went over the front and back yards thoroughly before coming back to the front. The guy couldn't have gotten away that fast! Had he gone inside the house? Paul took a step forward to head for the porch and then stopped short in astonishment. "Hey, wait a minute," he said to the night. "I know this place."

And the resident had apparently heard all the commotion. The front doorknob turned and the door swung open, revealing a disgruntled party in the lit doorway. "What's going on out here?" he demanded. He held a lowered hunting rifle in his right hand.

Paul jumped a mile but quickly recovered. "Sorry," he said, walking towards the porch. "I was chasing some guy and lost him in your yard. He might be in your house now."

Blue eyes widened. "Paul?" Hamilton frowned. "I haven't heard anyone come in, just a lot of running and someone slamming into the house."

"That was me," Paul admitted grudgingly. "I don't know if this guy is dangerous or not. Can I come in and look for him?"

Hamilton stepped aside. "I don't want him here," he said. "I'll help you look."

Paul climbed the steps, wiping his feet on the mat before he hurried into the house. "Thanks," he said.

The duo went to the back of the house and started there, checking each room and closet. "What did this guy look like?" Hamilton asked. He kept hold of his rifle as they searched. He did not want to have to use it, but to be on the safe side he would keep it with him. In any case, he did not want this supposed unwelcome visitor to get hold of it.

"Well, I didn't get a good look at him," Paul sighed, "but he had dark hair and he was wearing a uniform."

Hamilton froze. "What kind of uniform?"

"Oh, I don't know. It might've been Air Force; it looked blue." Paul shut a utility closet in annoyance. "If it was, he might be a guy I need to find for a case."

"You're chasing down military men now?" Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Wait a minute, this wouldn't have anything to do with Jerry Reynolds, would it?"

Paul spun around to stare at him. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Perry mentioned something about Jerry in trouble," Hamilton shrugged. "I was just putting the pieces together." He opened the door to the basement. "The funny thing is, I almost literally ran into a man earlier tonight who matches your description."

Paul waited for him to turn on the light before following him down the old stairs. "When was this?" he exclaimed.

"Two or three hours ago, maybe," Hamilton said. "He ran into the street and I had to put on my brakes. He looked terrified, but when I called to him he wouldn't talk to me. Instead he dashed to the sidewalk and around the side of a building."

"That sounds like the same guy alright," Paul said. "Did you tell Perry?"

"No," Hamilton said in surprise. "I didn't think I had any reason to. Not until after I hung up with him and started wondering if there was any chance it had some connection with Jerry's problem." He reached the bottom and started wandering through the basement rooms. As with the rest of the house, they seemed empty and safe. "I wondered even more after the phone call I got a while ago."

"What phone call?" Paul frowned.

"Oh . . . someone who told me to forget what I'd seen or people would get hurt." Hamilton sounded angry now. "Now I'm sure I _shouldn't_ forget it."

"Weird." Paul shook his head. "I don't get how this all connects. Maybe you should come back with me to Perry's office. Jerry's going back there after . . . well, I'd better let him or Perry tell you. It's not that I don't trust you," he added, thinking how strange it was to be saying that to Burger. "I just don't know that I have the right to be the one to blab it."

"That's fine." Hamilton shut the door of the last room. "I'll come with you, Paul. I want to know what's going on myself. And if what happened to me will shed any light on it, I'm happy to tell about it."

xxxx

Jerry and Pete were already back at Perry's office when he and Della returned. Perry hung his hat on the statue of Voltaire and began shrugging out of his coat.

"I'm glad you made it here safe," he said. "Did you have any trouble?"

"None at all," Jerry said. "I don't know if he was just bluffing or if we managed to sneak past him."

"Judging from how you looked when you hung up the phone, you didn't think he was bluffing," Pete pointed out.

"Maybe he meant all of what he said," Perry suggested, "and he didn't intend to harm you when he saw you were leaving as instructed."

"What he said didn't even make _sense,_" Jerry exclaimed, throwing up his hands. He began to walk the floor. "He wanted me to leave before he did something he regretted? I know it's a common enough expression, but why would he think he might do something he didn't really want to do?"

"That almost sounds like he thought he wouldn't have control of himself," Della commented.

Perry whirled to stare at her. "He wouldn't have control of himself?" His eyes were suddenly alight with deduction. "Such as if something else was controlling him?"

Della gasped, the magnitude of what they were saying dawning on her. "Perry, you think he might be another of that woman's experiments?"

"Well, it's worth looking into, isn't it?" Perry answered.

Jerry and Pete were both gaping. "What are you talking about?" Pete demanded. "What woman? What experiment? This is starting to feel like an episode of _The Twilight Zone._"

Perry hurried to his desk. "Oh, it's something a client of mine told us," he said. "I didn't think these cases had any connection whatsoever, but now I'm starting to wonder. It just might fit! Suppose that this Dr. Portman actually has managed to perfect some form of mind-control. And suppose that her subjects are fighting against it. That could explain why your stalker looked like he was in pain, Jerry. And why he would turn and run."

Jerry shook his head. "This is too much to think about," he objected. "Mind-control? Perry, this really isn't a Rod Serling script; this is real-life!"

"Who's to say what sorts of evil technology might be being developed behind the scenes?" Perry frowned. "Della, I want every piece of information on this Portman woman—what she's done, why she was kicked out of the AMA, and any news on where she was last seen."

Della nodded, heading for her office. "Right, Chief."

The telephone entered their conversation. Perry picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

An unknown voice greeted him. "Mr. Mason? This is Colonel Barton. My secretary told me you called."

Perry perked up. "Why, yes, Colonel Barton," he said. "I wanted to talk with you about Major Jerry Reynolds."

"Yes, I remember that you're a friend of his. Cleared him of Captain Caldwell's murder several years ago." Barton sounded congenial enough, but tense at the same time.

"That's right," Perry said. "And now I'm afraid it looks as though someone is out to get him."

"This may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Mason, but I agree with you." Now Barton's voice was unmistakably taut.

"Oh really?" Perry blinked. "I was under the impression you thought it was . . ." He cleared his throat. "All in Jerry's mind."

"Well, I did," admitted Barton. "But now I'll confess I don't know what to think. Someone is trying to torment Major Reynolds, but who?"

Perry glanced at Jerry, who was staring with amazed and bewildered interest. "Colonel, would I be correct in presuming that you have discovered something new that's of interest?"

"You would be correct, Mr. Mason." Barton heaved a reluctant sigh. "That meeting I was in when you called. We were discussing these findings and wondering what to make of them.

"You see, Major Reynolds told me how this mysterious stalker gripped a metal crate the first time he was seen. I ordered an investigative team to dust that crate for fingerprints. A lot were smudged, but there were two clear prints. And that is what's such a grave puzzle.

"Those fingerprints belong to Captain Michael Caldwell, deceased!"


	4. Ruminations

**Chapter Four**

Perry was not sure he had even heard right.

"Excuse me, Colonel," he said, feeling both awkward and stymied. "Did you say what I think you said?"

"Yes," Barton replied. "It's alright, Mr. Mason; we don't understand it either. The investigative team is going to arrive in Los Angeles first thing in the morning. Clearly there's some sort of outrageous fraud going on. Whoever is behind this is smart, notoriously and dangerously so. He won't stop at anything to drive Major Reynolds out of his mind."

"It would seem so," Perry frowned. "But Colonel, how would he duplicate those fingerprints?"

"There's ways, or so the investigators have told me," Barton said. "Maybe even, and this is far-fetched, I admit, they found an old crate that Captain Caldwell once handled and made sure it was in place on the testing range when the impostor arrived."

"It surely isn't as far-fetched as the idea that it _wasn't _an impostor who arrived," Perry said.

"What? Oh. Yes, of course. Naturally that isn't even a possibility.

"Mr. Mason, I tried to reach Major Reynolds at his hotel room, but he was out. Do you know where he is?"

"Why, yes, Colonel. He's right here." Perry glanced to Jerry. "Do you want to speak with him?"

"I do," Barton said. "I wanted to tell him these developments myself and gauge how he reacts."

"What do you mean, Sir?" Perry frowned. "How do you think he'll react?" Surely the Colonel did not suspect Jerry of having some involvement in this mess. Perry had been speaking guardedly anyway, not wanting to get Jerry more upset than he already was.

Now Barton sounded exasperated. "Mason, I didn't mean to imply . . . oh, nevermind. Tell him as you see fit. But let him know about the investigative team."

"I certainly will," Perry said. "And I hope they won't be arriving with preconceived notions about what's happening. Goodnight, Colonel." He hung up.

"Perry, what on earth was that all about?" Jerry exclaimed. Della and Pete looked likewise surprised.

Perry sighed. "I think you'd best sit down, Jerry," he said.

Jerry stiffened. "How bad is it?"

Perry clasped his hands. "A military investigative team is going to be in Los Angeles in the morning," he said. "They're coming largely because of a discovery made at the base tonight." He hesitated before determining he would have to plunge right in. "They found two clear fingerprints on the metal crate the impostor touched."

"Well, that's good!" Jerry walked away from the desk. "We can pin down who's responsible and get him thrown in prison."

"I'm afraid it isn't that simple," Perry said. He got up, following Jerry across the room. "Jerry, the fingerprints they found belong to Captain Caldwell."

". . . What?" The look in Jerry's eyes said it all. He stared at Perry. Either he had heard wrong or there was some mistake. There was no other explanation.

Della was gaping. "Oh Perry," she breathed.

"Say, what's going on around here?" Pete demanded. "I thought this case didn't make sense before!"

"It didn't, and it makes even less sense now," Perry admitted. "Jerry, I'm sorry. No one understands what's going on or why. But there has to be a logical explanation for the fingerprints. It will be found and the ones responsible brought to justice."

Jerry located the nearby couch and sank onto it, running his hands into his hair. "Mike is dead, Perry," he said. "He's _dead._ And I'm not the only one who saw the body and can prove it."

Perry sat next to him. "Jerry, no one is doubting your word. We know Caldwell is dead. I saw the body myself, in the morgue. There have been reports of miraculous recoveries, but no one could be revived from such graphic mutilation. Even if it were somehow possible, he would be a complete vegetable."

"The Colonel thought I knew something I wasn't telling, didn't he." It was more of a statement than a question.

"I don't know what the Colonel thought," Perry said honestly.

"His investigators will probably eventually find my father and bother him about this," Jerry said bitterly. "He's been getting better, but if he has to worry about me it will set him back."

"I'll do everything I can to make sure no harm is done to your father's health," Perry vowed. "Or yours. Why don't you stay at my apartment tonight?"

Jerry regarded him in surprise. "Do you even have enough room?" he said doubtfully.

"Of course," Perry said. "Plenty."

Della watched the exchange, her expression not betraying her thoughts. She happened to know that there was not enough room. Someone would have to sleep on the couch. And Della was sure it would not be Jerry.

At last Jerry gave a slow nod. "Well . . . alright then. Just for tonight. I have to admit, that sounds better than sitting up in a hotel room thinking about all this."

Perry smiled. "Good. Pete can go back and get your belongings."

Paul's familiar knock on the door brought their attention upward. "Come in, Paul," Perry called.

It was to everyone's amazement when Paul entered with Hamilton Burger. Perry went over, an eyebrow raised. "Why, Hamilton," he greeted. "What brings you here at this time of night?"

Hamilton shook Perry's hand. "Hello, Perry. It's a long story," he sighed. Glancing around the office he observed, "And from the looks of things, you've already got one."

Perry nodded. "You're right. Perhaps we'd best exchange our long stories."

xxxx

It took the better part of an hour for everyone to be filled in on everything. Hamilton, of course, was not pleased at all by the thoughts of mind-control.

"Those chips are supposed to be able to make someone do whatever the person controlling the chip wants?" He shook his head in disbelief. "That's ridiculous! There isn't any such technology."

"There might be now," Perry said. "I suggest you turn those chips over to an expert scientist, Hamilton. Let's find out what their components actually are."

"I'm all for that," Hamilton said.

Della looked to him. "Mr. Burger, I'm curious," she said. "Are you still trying to find a way around what happened to Lieutenant Tragg last month?"

Hamilton sighed. "I knew that was coming," he said ruefully. "And the truth is, Miss Street, I don't know. What happened to Tragg was different, anyway. _That_ was supposedly caused by . . . oh, I can't even say it."

Jerry looked back and forth between them. "I have the feeling I'm missing something here," he said.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Jerry," Perry interjected. "It doesn't have any bearing on this."

"You're right, it doesn't," Hamilton said. "But I _will_ say that just because that happened doesn't mean I'm going to swallow every bizarre story hook, line, and sinker."

"No one would expect you to," Perry said. With a bit of a smile he continued, "I think I'd be concerned if you _weren't_ our resident skeptic." And sobering, "But I would also be concerned if you didn't fully investigate the possibility."

"I'll see about the scientist, Perry," Hamilton said. "I said I would."

Abruptly he frowned, glancing to Jerry and back to Perry. "What did you say happened to this Caldwell guy?"

Perry opened his mouth to answer, but Jerry beat him to it. "Dan Morgan bashed his head in because he learned that Morgan was a crook," he said bitterly. "A crook who'd stoop to anything to get his missiles airborne."

"Which side of his head?" Hamilton persisted.

"The left." Jerry passed a hand over his eyes.

"That's funny," said Hamilton, half to himself.

Perry shot him a Look. "What is?"

Hamilton looked back. "I was just thinking about the guy who ran out in front of my car," he answered. "I didn't think much of it at the time, but I remember noticing what looked like a mark around his left temple. It could've been the tip of a scar, with the rest hidden under his hair."

Perry frowned. "Strange," he commented. "But that was all?"

"Yes," Hamilton said. "Nothing was bashed in, if that's what you're getting at."

Jerry leaned forward, staring at the floor. "It's impossible," he said aloud. "It couldn't be."

"Of course it couldn't," Perry said. "It's obviously another way whoever is behind this is trying to torture you. Perhaps they wanted you to see this mark. Most likely it's completely fake."

Jerry nodded. "Most likely," he agreed.

Della laid a hand on Jerry's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

He started in surprise and looked up at her. "So am I." He shook his head, turning to Perry. "You know, I always felt bad about what happened between him and me. He was frustrating sometimes, sure, but he was a good officer and a good friend. Or I thought he was.

"I didn't know what to think after that disaster in Bosnia. I thought he'd betrayed me. I knew I'd sent that order. I tried several times, in fact. There just wasn't any answer." He gripped his hands. "And it really bothers me that I didn't consider that maybe he was telling the truth too and he honestly didn't hear anything."

"You found that the equipment was fine," Hamilton said. "What else could you have thought?"

"I don't know." Jerry ran a hand into his hair. "I knew he wasn't a liar. It just keeps running through my mind—why didn't I do more? Why didn't I fight harder for him? I just let him be reprimanded and reassigned. I was certain he deserved it.

"Of course he was bitter and blamed me. Of course he wanted to prove that I was guilty of sabotaging that blasted missile, if I was. He wanted to show me up after what I'd done to him. I thought he was unfairly and ridiculously holding a grudge. And maybe he was, but if it looked to him like I was in the wrong and trying to get the heat off of myself by lying about him and that order, then it's all so much more understandable.

"I got so angry the last time I saw him alive. . . ." He slammed his fist into his palm. "The last thing I ever did was to knock him to the ground and then storm off without another word. I didn't even wait for him to get up."

"Yeah, but you only decked him after he'd insulted you to the point that you lost it," Paul said. "I probably would've hit him myself, if it'd been me."

Jerry looked to him. "The point is, I regretted it after I calmed down. Even more after I found him dead on the testing field later that morning. And seeing this ghost that isn't a ghost is bringing it all back to me."

"Jerry, you can't beat yourself up over this," Perry said. "What's more, you might be playing right into your enemy's hands. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he wants you to feel guilty over the past."

"But _why,_ Perry?" Jerry looked to him with a jerk. "I didn't know Caldwell even had someone fighting that hard in his corner. He sure didn't when I knew him. He was a wild card."

"Maybe it isn't necessarily a friend of Caldwell's," Perry said. "Especially if it's this Portman woman. She's known for cruelly exploring people's minds without principles or pity."

"So I might be having my life turned upsidedown just for kicks?" Jerry cried in disbelief.

"More for Portman's insane claims that she's furthering science and the understanding of the mind," Perry said. "The information that Della has found so far is highly disturbing." He held up several sheets of paper. "She's been spotted in various locations across the country, driving people from all walks of life out of their minds."

Hamilton gave a grim nod. "I've heard more about her than I ever wanted to," he said, "and I always hoped she'd stay away from Los Angeles. The only upside about her coming here is that we have a chance to personally catch her and put her away for good." He looked to Perry, dead serious. "Perry, you know I'm going to want to talk with Elaine myself in the morning."

"I know," Perry said. "But I would like to be there when you do. She might be more receptive that way."

"She might be," Hamilton agreed.

"And I need to bring up the contents of the folder you picked up tonight, Della," Perry said.

"I didn't even think about that until later," Della admitted. "What Elaine said was so shocking that the folder seemed mild by comparison."

"What's in this folder?" Hamilton frowned, looking from one to the other. "You haven't said."

"The more I think about it, the more I think it's inconsequential," Perry said. "That was why I didn't mention it during our visit. It doesn't have anything to do with Portman. At least, I don't think so. You'll find out about it later, Hamilton."

"I hope so," Hamilton said.

"I promise I'm not withholding evidence," Perry said.

"Well, good," Hamilton returned.

"And those investigators," Jerry said. "They'll want to talk to her too, won't they?"

"Most likely," Perry said.

Paul sighed. "Oh brother. If this thing explodes into a full-scale military investigation, L.A. is really going to get turned into a three-ring circus."

"And that's exactly what will happen, if they can connect this Portman with the hoax against me," Jerry said. "And probably even if they can't, since the impostor is here in town.

"I just wonder how Portman would pick me. I'm no one in particular. How would she even know I exist?"

"It could have been from all the publicity after Caldwell's murder," Hamilton said. "Her usual M.O. is to spy on a target once she's got him picked out. She might watch him for months, even years, before making her move."

"What a sick witch." Jerry rubbed his eyes. He was too weary at the moment to even be angry. But his skin was crawling. Just the thought of some mad scientist voyeur spying on him for _years_ was more than enough to creep him out.

"Does she always go after men?" Della wondered. "All the articles I found were about her tormenting men, usually young men who'd already had terrible breaks in their lives."

"Men are her usual targets, yes," Hamilton nodded. "I don't know why. Maybe she feels it gives her power over them."

"Or maybe because men are often so much more stubborn and elusive about their emotions than women," Della said, casting a side-long glance at Perry. He just smiled.

"Why, I can't imagine what would give you that idea," he said.

"All humor aside, this is getting downright terrifying," Paul exclaimed. "Even if Jerry isn't a target, Elaine indicated that Portman is in the area. She might go after any one of us!"

"We'll just have to hope and pray she doesn't," Perry said. "Just as I hope she isn't already targeting Jerry."

"At least if she is, we'll know who's after me," Jerry said, sinking back into the couch. "If she's not involved, we're back to square one!"

Hamilton frowned. "That's true," he admitted.

Jerry looked to him. "Mr. Burger, did you get a good look at the mark you saw on that man's temple?" he asked.

Hamilton shook his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't. I only saw it for a few seconds, when he was in my headlights. But in all honesty, it really looked like there was probably more of it under his hair. What it means, I don't know."

Jerry stared at the ceiling. "If we knew that, we might be a lot closer to an answer."

"Well, whether it's real or fake, we know the guy isn't Captain Caldwell," Hamilton said.

Jerry nodded. "Yes," he said. "We do know that." But something in his voice sounded unconvinced nevertheless.

Perry exchanged a concerned look with Della. If Jerry was starting to believe it, he was falling right into his enemy's trap.

xxxx

Mignon Germaine pulled into her driveway, turning off the engine of her black station wagon. It was late. Larry was naturally home by now; his car was in the garage. He had left the porch light on for her, but had extinguished the lights in the house. Hopefully he was in bed.

She had talked with Hamilton earlier that day. He was still concerned about how she was recovering from the emotional shock and devastation of last month. But she was doing much better since then, for which he was greatly gratified.

A couple of weeks ago, at her request, Hamilton had arranged for her to view Vivalene in the prison hospital ward. She had hoped that she might be able to work up a bit of compassion and pity for the woman who had caused them so much torment and grief. But after Vivalene had nearly caused the death of Hamilton, Mignon had been unable to feel anything but relief that she was out of the way. In a coma she could not hurt anyone but herself.

Gathering her purse, Mignon opened the car door and stepped onto the walkway. It was not usual for her to be arriving back at this hour, but tonight she had been asked to fill in for the dancer who headlined the late show at the Club Caribe. After her own performance she had stayed on, refreshing her memory on the other woman's number before going back onstage as a substitute.

She was not that concerned about her safety, despite the unseemly hour. There had rarely been trouble in this quiet neighborhood.

Of course, there was always a first time. The sight of a shadow behind her on the sidewalk sent her spinning around, gripping her purse as her only possible weapon.

"I'm sorry if I startled you, Ma'am."

She raised an eyebrow. Now the shadow had stepped into the beam from a streetlamp. He was a good-looking, dark-haired man, perhaps several years younger than she. He was in full military regalia, save for his hat—which he held in his hand. His other hand was held to the left side of his head, as though it pained him.

"That's alright," she said, still on guard. "Who are you?" Eyeing his exploring hand she added, "Are you hurt?"

"What? Oh. No, Ma'am." His hand dropped. "I was just taking a walk. It's a nice evening for it."

"You look like you're hurt," Mignon said. "I would be happy to call you a cab. Or a friend."

"There's no one you can call," he answered quickly. Realizing that perhaps he was too brusque, he sighed. "Excuse me. This has been kind of a strange night for me. I don't think I've fully processed it yet."

"I see," Mignon said, although she really did not. "And how do you happen to be taking a walk in this neighborhood? Do you know someone here?"

"No one in this neighborhood," he said. "I've been walking for a while. I just sort of . . . ended up here." He gave her a smile.

She was still unmoved. His smile looked somehow forced. "You never did tell me who you are," she remarked.

He placed his hat on his head, all traces of friendliness fading. "You're better off not knowing," he said. "You'd never believe it anyway." With that he walked past her and continued down the sidewalk.

She looked after him until he was out of sight. Then, frowning, she climbed the steps to the porch and unlocked the door, slipping into the house.


	5. Investigation

**Chapter Five**

The investigative team was set to arrive early in the morning. Hamilton wanted to question Elaine Darrow before the military did. Perry was agreeable, so they called ahead and arranged to speak with Elaine as soon as possible. When they entered the room and Elaine was brought in, she looked half-asleep.

"This had better be good," she mumbled. "Don't you know normal people are sleeping right now?"

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Elaine," Perry said. "We don't have much time."

"What about the hearing tomorrow?" Elaine frowned.

"Well, I'm not sure if it will continue that soon," Hamilton admitted. "With these new developments, we might need more time to sort through and plan our cases. I might have to ask the judge for a continuance." He looked at her. "Will you tell me what you told Mr. Mason about this Alice Portman woman?"

Elaine glanced to Perry, who nodded. "I guess so," she said.

"But first," Perry interjected, "have you ever seen this man before?" He took out Jerry's newspaper clipping and pointed to the photograph of Captain Caldwell.

Elaine blinked in surprised confusion. "No," she said. "No, I really don't think so."

"Alright then." Perry slipped the paper back into his briefcase. "Tell Mr. Burger about Dr. Portman."

xxxx

The man in the shadows passed a hand over his eyes. He had been all over Los Angeles tonight, from the downtown district to residential neighborhoods. He knew where he was _supposed_ to go, where he was forced to _keep_ going, and he knew what he was supposed to do when he got there. He could feel the pull on his senses, on his very _mind._ And the more he fought and struggled against it, the sicker and more pained he became.

He glanced at the billboard of the church across the street. The subject for next Sunday's sermon was printed in large black letters. _WHAT IS DEATH?_

He looked away. He, of all people, should be able to answer that one himself. But he did not know.

All he knew was that this was not life. This constant war with the chip embedded inside him was a living Hell. He was not free. He could barely stop himself from acting on the insistent, demanding urge being fed to him. If and when someone returned to Major Reynolds' hotel room, they would find it an utter shambles. He had been unable to control his body from bursting in and toppling everything inside in a fit of sheer fury. And if the police were called, his fingerprints were everywhere.

Now his head was throbbing again. Great, just great. He reached up, clutching at the offending spot.

Was the chip actually in or against his brain? He had never been told where it was on his person. Maybe the _good_ doctor had worried he would go to any lengths to get it out if he knew the spot. And he would, of course . . . if it wasn't that he feared he would set it off by trying to remove it. Then he might go on a homicidal rampage across the city, killing anyone in his path. He wouldn't have a single say in the matter.

He swore helplessly under his breath. This could not go on forever. He could try to end it all, perhaps. But the chip probably wouldn't let him go through with it. And deep down, he was not sure _he_ would let himself go through with it either. He wanted to destroy the chip, not himself. He wanted to _live._

It had been denied him for years. Even as Dr. Portman and her neurosurgeon associate had tended to him, repairing every bit of supposedly unrepairable damage and guiding him in relearning each speech and motor skill he had once performed without thought and with ease, they had only been grooming him for this. He was part of their disgusting experiment, and they would never let him go until it was fulfilled.

He slumped against the wall, staring helplessly into the sky. He had said so many prayers, had pleaded so many times to be able to stop this. And unless the answer was that he had been given just enough strength to keep fighting, he did not know that he had received a response at all.

"You betrayed me, Major Reynolds," he said to the empty street. "But that doesn't mean I want to see you dead. And it doesn't mean I want to kill you."

That was why he always ran. And he would keep running, until he either defeated the chip or it defeated him. Whichever came first.

But if it were the latter, so many more would lose besides him.

He pushed away from the wall, turning to go down the alley. The chip was also a homing beacon. They could always find him, wherever he went.

Portman was amused by his panic and his persistent running each time the controlling force drew him to seek out Jerry. She had said as much during their encounters following each aborted murder attempt.

"_Why do you do this to yourself?"_ she had asked the last time. _"You detest the man. Kill him and have your revenge complete."_

"_I wanted him exposed as a fraud,"_ he had retorted, his voice clipped. _"That's it. I'm not a murderer."_

"_My invention can make a murderer out of anyone,"_ she had answered with a matter-of-fact adjustment of her glasses. _"At least, it's worked on previous test subjects. That body the police found. The man did everything the chip wanted."_

"_And then it killed him,"_ he had finished.

"_Actually, he killed himself."_ Portman had frowned, intrigued and somewhat troubled. _"He couldn't live with himself knowing what he had done. And with his mission complete, the chip didn't offer any resistance."_

"_You weren't expecting it, were you?"_ He had sneered at her, pleased to see her puzzled. _"You thought the chip had got rid of his conscience altogether."_

"_At any rate, I thought all of his inhibitions had been blocked."_ She had folded her arms, still smiling in that wretched, self-assured way. _"Don't you see? This is exactly why experiments such as mine are important! The human mind is such a fascinating, complex mystery. There's always something new to unravel."_

Her smirk never failed to be unsettling. _"You're special, you know. We tried this experiment on several other fatally mutilated subjects. You're the only one who has recovered and even thrived. The rest, unfortunately, couldn't take it; they never made anywhere near a complete recovery. Most died and stayed dead. We couldn't revive them a second time."_

"_Maybe they're the lucky ones." _His reply had been cold and curt.

"_You hate what you're being forced to do, don't you."_

"_Any decent person would,"_ he had snapped. _"In fact, anyone who doesn't like being forced would hate it, decent or not."_

"_Be that as it may, things will continue in this vein indefinitely,"_ she had told him. _"I can wait, for as long as it takes. After all, your level of rebellion is part of the experiment too."_

"_Well then, you'll have a long wait in store," _he had answered. _"I'm nowhere near ready to give up."_

And that was still his vow. But he grew less and less sure of himself as the days passed. Could he keep fighting? Especially when there were moments when he would completely blank out and not know what he was doing? What if someday he came back to himself and found himself covered in blood not his own?

Now he found that he had somehow wandered all the way to the building where Perry Mason lived. He dove behind a tree, gripping its rough trunk.

_No! He didn't want to be here. He wanted to turn and run for it. To keep running until there was no longer the concern that he would kill Jerry, or anyone else._

A cab pulled up in front of the building. He frowned, watching as two men alighted. They were both military men, dressed in uniform and carrying briefcases. What were they doing here? They must be planning to stay; the cab was driving off.

He lingered, wanting to wait and see what happened.

xxxx

The knock on the door roused Perry from what could not have been a very long slumber. He rolled over on the couch, running a hand over his face in an attempt to wipe the sleepiness away. "I'm coming," he half-mumbled, irritable at being disturbed.

Jerry had already been asleep when Perry had returned from the visit with Elaine. Not wanting to wake him, Perry had crept around getting ready for bed and had at last sank onto the couch. And already he was being routed out. But on the other hand, it must be important. Maybe it had to do with the case.

He stumbled up, pushing his feet into his slippers and shuffling to the door. As he unlocked and opened it, he found himself staring at two Air Force personnel. He blinked, the fogginess still over his mind and eyes.

"Mr. Perry Mason?" one of them spoke.

"Yes," he said. "What are you doing on my doorstep at this beastly hour?"

"I'm sorry, Sir," was the reply. "We were told you were informed that we would be arriving early. I'm Lieutenant Philips."

"And you might remember me," said the second man as he stepped forward.

Perry woke up more at the realization of a familiar face. "Captain McVey," he said in surprise. "Of course I remember you." He reached to shake hands. "I'm sorry as well. You'll have to forgive me; I'm still half-asleep. I wasn't expecting you for a couple more hours at least."

Captain McVey shook Perry's hand, his grip firm. "We came as quickly as we could after the fingerprints were identified," he said. "I was chosen to head this investigation because I investigated the murder of Captain Caldwell." He glanced over Perry's shoulder. "How has Major Reynolds been handling the news?"

"As well as could be expected," Perry said. He stepped aside, opening the door farther. "Please come in, both of you." They did, and he shut the door behind them. "He's very shaken by the identification of those prints," he continued. "Do you have any idea how this could have happened?"

McVey exchanged a glance with Lieutenant Philips. "Well," Philips said as he came forward, "either someone did something very complicated by having applied the fingerprints to the crate from some kind of mold or cast of Captain Caldwell's hand, or they found an old crate that he'd touched that hadn't been disturbed since his death."

"Or it was coincidence," McVey added. "But I'm afraid that's unlikely."

Perry nodded. "This is a very well-thought-out plan against Jerry," he said. "Jerry couldn't think of anyone who would want to torture him this way. Can you, Captain?"

McVey shook his head. "I can't," he said with regret. "This is as much of a puzzle for us as it is for you."

Perry rolled up the quilt he had been using and deposited it on top of his pillow. "Sit down," he invited. Once they did, Perry sat as well. "Have you heard of a mad scientist named Alice Portman?"

McVey stiffened. Lieutenant Philips just looked perplexed.

Perry took in their reactions. "I take it that at least you are aware of her, Captain McVey," he noted.

". . . Yes," McVey said after some hesitation. "She's been deemed a possible threat to the security of this nation. Every branch of the military has their own secret operation to find her and bring her to justice. I'm also aware that law enforcement officers in various cities across the world are looking for her too."

"Including right here in Los Angeles," Perry said. "I've started to wonder if she could be behind the attempt to break down Jerry's mind."

McVey stared at him. "Why?"

Perry's explanation took nearly the rest of the hour. Before he and Hamilton had left Elaine, he had warned her about the oncoming military officers and had asked for her permission to either tell them her story or have them talk to her. She had consented, albeit with reluctance. Perry explained all that she had said, although he was certain the investigators would still want to question her themselves.

Lieutenant Philips wrote everything down while Captain McVey listened. "You're right, Perry," he said at the conclusion. "It's possible that there's some connection here. Will this Elaine Darrow talk with us?"

"She agreed when I mentioned you'd be coming," Perry said.

"Our taskforce assigned to capture Dr. Portman will be interested in speaking with her as well," McVey said.

"Elaine is going to be a very popular prisoner over the next few days," Philips deduced.

"I'm not sure she'll like that," Perry mused.

"Oh, one more thing," McVey said. "Where's Major Reynolds?"

"In the bedroom, asleep," Perry said, nodding towards the closed door. "And he badly needs it."

McVey looked disappointed, but nodded as well. "Then we'll let him sleep," he said. "At least for now. We'll need to talk with him soon."

"Of course," Perry said.

The two men left moments later, after having called another cab. They were not aware that they were being watched from behind a tree.

xxxx

Andy sighed, pushing his hat back on his head as Tragg drove them back to the precinct. They had been working overtime, desperate to find the answer to the mysterious murder. They had been informed of what Elaine Darrow knew, but that had established Dr. Portman's involvement and little else. By now they were both exhausted.

"This has been one of the longest nights I've had since returning to active duty," Andy commented.

"Same here," Tragg said gruffly. "This Portman is really a piece of work."

He glanced to Andy in a bit of concern. "You can handle it, can't you, Andy?" he asked. "It's not too much of a strain right now?"

"Oh no," Andy hurried to assure him. "No, I've recovered enough. After all those weeks of physical therapy, even the thought of a night like _this_ sounded inviting."

Tragg chuckled. "You really must have been antsy."

"You could say that," Andy agreed. "And it would be putting it mildly."

He perked up, blinking in surprise as they pulled into the precinct's parking garage. "Isn't that Lieutenant Drumm over there?"

Tragg gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. "Yes," he acknowledged. "He must just be getting off for the night."

Steve noticed them. As Tragg parked the car and slowly got out, Steve went over. "Hello," he greeted, looking from one to the other as though unsure of how his presence would be taken. "Long night?"

"Yeah," Tragg grunted. "Mostly unsuccessful, too."

Andy nodded in agreement as he got out the passenger side. "How was your night, Steve?"

"Long," Steve said flatly. "And very dull. The most interesting thing in L.A. tonight seems to be your case and how it connects with the Darrow case."

"Well . . . that makes sense," Andy said slowly.

"We're going to check out and head for home," Tragg said as he started to walk past. "See you later." Not really waiting for a reply or for Andy, he kept going until he reached the building. Pulling open the door, he stepped inside.

Andy let out a discouraged sigh as he observed. Steve followed his gaze. "He's still upset about that car incident, isn't he?" Steve remarked.

"Yes, he is. And what happened with him and Mr. Burger." Andy turned to face Steve. "No amount of coaxing can convince him it wasn't his fault. He says he just needs more time to forgive himself. I wonder if it's possible. None of us have ever been up against a situation like this before. There've always been logical reasons for what's happened to us. Now, suddenly there's a paranormal explanation. That element really shakes Arthur up. I think it's got to all of us. Mr. Burger doesn't like to talk about it at all."

"Tell me about it." Steve sighed too. "I don't know what to make of it any more than you and Lieutenant Tragg and Mr. Burger. None of what happened back then makes sense. You know, I still run into people talking about how their lives turned upsidedown for a few days and they can't understand, for the life of them, _why._"

"I think Mr. Burger still wonders if he should have tried to explain the whole story," Andy said. "And yet he knows it would have made it even worse."

"It's a no-win situation," Steve said with a sage nod. "Well, I'm off. Good luck. On all fronts," he added.

"Thank you," Andy said. He turned, heading towards the door as Tragg had done.

xxxx

Andy was right that Hamilton did not want to talk about the disaster of last month. But subconsciously, he was still trying to make sense of it.

He jerked awake from where he was lying in bed, gripping his pillow. His heart was racing, his breathing heavy. Slowly he slumped onto his back, uncurling his fingers from the fabric as the scene around him began to process.

"It was just a dream," he mumbled aloud. "It's not real."

But it _had been_ real. That was the most frightening thing about it. Everything in it had been based on fact. They had actually been in that house. Tragg had fought against him and Paul. And Vivalene had tried to murder him after Tragg had attacked him while under her control.

He remembered the shock, alarm, and revulsion he had felt when she had lunged, kissing him with lustful hate and at the same time opening that box to blast him with its dark energy. The pain had swept over him for one brief moment. Then, as far as he had known, he had fallen down the marble steps in death. He had felt nothing more until the spell binding him had been shattered.

The phone ringing at his bedside forced him to focus on the present. He grabbed for the receiver, frowning. It was the middle of the night, really. Who would be calling at this hour? "Hello?"

"Mr. Burger?"

The timid, shaking voice instantly made him sit up in bed. "Howie?" He gripped the phone. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

Seven-year-old Howie Peterson, Hamilton and Mignon's godson, sniffled. "I . . . I just wanted to make sure you were still okay," he said.

Hamilton frowned. This was not the first time such a conversation had happened in the past weeks. "Howie, I'm fine," he tried to reassure the kid.

Howie, along with everyone else, had seen Vivalene do her best to kill Hamilton. It had badly shaken him. The first week after it had happened, he had woke up screaming every night from a terrifying reliving of it in his dreams. He had called Hamilton in tears, wanting reassurance that he was alive. And that had continued off and on ever since.

"You're sure?" Howie said now.

"I'm sure," Hamilton said. "Go back to sleep, Howie. It'll be alright."

"Okay. Did I wake you up?" Howie asked, worried.

"No," Hamilton said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "I was already awake."

"Were you dreaming too? About . . . about . . ."

Hamilton sighed. ". . . Yes," he admitted at last. Perhaps it would be good for Howie to know that.

"It still bothers you?"

"It does," Hamilton said. "Howie, we went through something horrible. It's normal to be bothered for a while by horrible things."

"The kids at school think it's weird," Howie said.

"Well, they've probably never gone through anything like that before," Hamilton said. "If they had, they'd more than likely feel the same way." He paused. "I can't even imagine what you must have felt when you saw what Vivalene did."

"Y-You fell," Howie said, his voice quavering. "I wanted to go to you so bad, but that guy wouldn't let me. And when I finally got away and went down the stairs, you didn't move. I wanted you to wake up, but you didn't. You couldn't! . . ."

"I know," Hamilton said quietly. "I'm sorry. I wish I could change what happened. It hurt so many people, including you." And it made him highly uncomfortable to be discussing it at all, when he had been the victim. It felt so surreal and wrong.

"It wasn't your fault," Howie said in earnest. "It was that awful woman.

"Well . . . I'm going to let you go now," he continued. "You can go back to sleep."

"You're going to, aren't you, Howie?" Hamilton asked.

"Sure," Howie said. "When I'm tired again. Goodbye, Mr. Burger." He hung up, leaving Hamilton with the dial tone.

Hamilton frowned, pulling the phone away from his ear. He did not want to call back; he might wake Mr. or Mrs. Peterson. But he wanted to have another talk with them, and soon. He was afraid Howie was not going back to sleep the nights he had those dreams. Howie might very well be staying awake, fearful of sleeping and having another one. And that was certainly not healthy, especially for such a young kid.

_None_ of what had happened was healthy for such a young kid. He never should have witnessed what Vivalene had done.

Hamilton laid back down, staring at the ceiling. Mignon had been having trouble combating her bitterness towards Vivalene. And Hamilton understood why.


	6. Alley

**Chapter Six**

Jerry was exhausted and frustrated.

Almost as soon as he had woke up from what had already been a mostly restless sleep, he had been greeted by Captain McVey and his assistant Lieutenant Philips. They had questioned him for over an hour, going over and over the same things and apparently trying to make sure that his story never varied. They also wanted to try following him at a discreet distance to see if his stalker would appear again. Although less than pleased, Jerry consented.

"I don't like it, Perry," he complained as he shrugged into his coat. "They made me feel like some kind of criminal. _I'm_ the victim here!"

Perry sighed from where he was perched at the edge of the bed. "I know, Jerry, but they have to investigate all angles."

"As if I'd have anything to gain from participating in a sick conspiracy like this." Jerry straightened his tie and buttoned his coat with a flourish, then grabbed his hat. "I'm going for a walk."

"I hope you won't try to lose your shadows," Perry said. "They have a good idea here, as frustrating as it may be."

"I won't _try_ to lose them," Jerry said. "But if they just so happen to not be there when I turn a corner, I won't spend time looking for them. If this guy tries to attack me, I can take him."

Perry frowned. "Jerry . . ."

"Don't worry, Perry, I'll be fine," Jerry asserted. He hurried past and out the door.

Perry watched him go. "I hope you're right," he said, more to the room than to Jerry.

xxxx

Jerry's "shadows" had dressed in civilian clothing so they would not stick out as much. But Jerry still knew who they were and when they were trailing behind him. He looked ahead, and sometimes to one side or the other, but never turned around. As annoyed as he was by this set-up, he would not give them away.

The day was overcast once again. In spite of that, quite a few people were also out walking. Several generally clustered around the lampposts at crosswalks, waiting for the signal to change. As Jerry turned the corner at one such crowded crosswalk and started down the block, McVey and Philips lost track of him just long enough for an arm to reach out from between two buildings near the next corner and pull a stunned and stumbling Jerry into the narrow space.

Jerry gasped in surprise, the wind knocked out of him as he was slammed into the brick wall. Then he was staring into wild and furious brown eyes—eyes that rang of familiarity.

His heart beat faster. "You can't be," he choked out. "You _can't_ be. _Mike?_"

His stalker responded by grabbing his coat by the lapels and thrusting him to the ground. "You're right," he snarled. "I can't be. So who am I?"

Jerry grimaced, pushing himself up with one hand. "I don't know," he said. "Who else would hate me enough to try to drive me out of my mind?"

As he started to rise from the ground a dark boot kicked him back down. "Take a guess, Major Reynolds." The other man pressed his foot into Jerry's ribs and kept pushing.

His face twisting in pain, Jerry grabbed for the other's ankle. "I can't guess," he retorted. "Caldwell and Dan Morgan were my only enemies."

"And you still don't think you did anything to warrant Caldwell becoming your enemy?" The stalker resisted Jerry's attempt to stop him. He kicked out hard, striking Jerry in the jaw. Only then did he pull his foot back, standing on the ground with both feet once more.

Jerry lay on the asphalt, clutching his jaw with shaking hands. Now the anger was building in his veins. He got up, facing his nemesis.

"Caldwell always said I'd lied," he said. "But I didn't. And maybe he didn't either. We'll never know now."

Something flickered in the stalker's eyes. "What do you mean 'Maybe he didn't either'?" he demanded. "You know the truth. You know you lied and he told what really happened."

"I don't know any such thing." Jerry's tone was clipped as he drew closer. "All I know is that you've been following me and I'm sick of it. And this is the first time you haven't turned tail and ran when I noticed you. Why?"

"Why? . . ." The stalker stumbled back, trembling. A hand flew to the left side of his head.

For the first time Jerry was able to take note of the mark Hamilton had described. It really did look like the end of a long scar. And now the man's eyes were wide and increasingly panic-stricken and helpless.

"Major Reynolds . . ." He looked to Jerry pleadingly. "I don't want to hurt you. Get out of here. Get out before I . . ."

"Before you what?" Jerry frowned. A chill was going up his spine. The speculation last night had been that the man might be under some sort of mind-control. Was that possible?

"Before I try to kill you!" the other man screamed. He shoved Jerry back with his free hand.

Again Jerry hit the brick wall. He stared in horrified disbelief. "What's wrong with you?" he cried. "With your head? With your willpower? Can't you stop yourself from trying to kill me?"

"That's what I've been trying to do every time we've met," the stalker snarled. "You wanted to know why I've run? That's why. And this time I didn't because I couldn't get control of myself in time. I don't have much willpower left."

"Why?" Jerry drew a deep breath. "Are you . . . are you under some kind of control?"

The other man stared now, in stunned amazement. "That sort of thing only exists in science-fiction novels," he countered.

"Maybe," Jerry said. "But according to some woman, it exists in real-life now. She worked for a Dr. Alice Portman. Does that name ring any bells?"

The stalker backed up. The recognition was clear on his face, but so were the pain and the struggle. He was not likely to be able to fight the mind-control for much longer.

Jerry was not willing to give up. He advanced, reaching to touch the visible part of the scar on the tortured man's left temple. "Why do you have this?"

His hand was batted away. "Why do you think?"

"I don't know what to think," Jerry said. "All I know is that you're almost identical to Captain Caldwell. And he was killed by a blow to the left side of his head."

"That's right—_killed,_" the stalker echoed. "And no one comes back from the dead. Especially if his brain's been bashed in!"

"I know it can't happen," Jerry said. "But . . ."

The brown eyes narrowed. "Let's get one thing straight, Major Reynolds," was the growled reply. "The man you knew as Captain Caldwell is dead."

The sound of running footsteps snapped the tormented man back to his senses. McVey and Philips had finally caught up. The stalker lashed out, shoving Jerry away from him before turning and dashing out of the alley. Jerry crashed against the wall but righted himself, immediately trying to give chase. "Wait!" he yelled.

A strong hand grabbed him before he could take off running. "Major Reynolds, that man's plans for you can't be good," McVey said. "Or whoever he's working for. Please stay here, Sir." Lieutenant Philips tore past in pursuit. "We'll catch him."

Jerry snatched McVey's wrist. "No," he said. "I think Perry's right—that man is being forced to do something he doesn't want to do. I saw the look in his eyes. I saw him fighting against some invisible force. He told me to leave before he tried to kill me."

McVey frowned deeply. "Even if he doesn't want to do it, he's still a threat," he said. "In fact, he's even more of one if he can lose control of his will like that." He moved to let Jerry go and run after his assistant.

Before he could, Lieutenant Philips reappeared. "I couldn't catch him, Sir," he said between gulps of air. "He had too much of a head-start and went too fast."

McVey considered the information. "I think," he said at last, "it's time to call more people in."

Jerry studied him. His heart was still beating fast and with his worry. "Take him alive if you can," he said. "We need whatever information he might be able to give us."

"That's my feeling too, Sir," McVey said. "I want to bring him in alive if it's at all possible." He peered at Jerry more closely. "But . . . if you'll forgive me, Major, is that the only reason you're telling me this?"

Jerry's fist clenched at his side. "It's the only reason you need to know about, Captain," he returned.

McVey finally nodded, but his frown said loud and clear that he was not satisfied. "Of course, Major," he said. "Excuse me." He turned away, taking out his phone.

Jerry watched him, his jaw set. No one would believe his other reason. _He_ didn't believe his other reason. But he had a nagging, troubled feeling about the conversation he had exchanged with his stalker. In spite of the other's parting words, or perhaps _because _of them, Jerry was only all the more conflicted.

The man had been very careful in his phrasing. And he had also been harsh and determined about Bosnia, taking an all-too-familiar stance.

Was there any chance, any shadow of a doubt, that he could really be some semblance of what was left of Captain Michael Caldwell?

And . . . if Jerry followed that thought through to its conclusion, the inevitable next step was . . . if it were possible, was what was left only an empty shell? Or was there any part of a soul or spirit within it?

He took several steps forward, gazing up at the gray sky as though it afforded the answers he so badly needed.

_Would an empty shell be so agonized at the thought of murder?_

The answer to that question agonized Jerry even more.

xxxx

The military looked for the mysterious man for the rest of the day, without success. After being given his description, and taking several calls from bewildered citizens, the police were looking too.

With Elaine's new information, and the investigation into Dr. Portman, Perry and Hamilton had mutually decided to ask the judge for a continuance. It had been granted. The attorneys had spent the majority of the day furthering their research and trying to verify or destroy Elaine's story about driving into town with the victim, who had then collapsed.

Jerry had walked and searched and brooded most of the day, not wanting to bother Perry but also not knowing what to do. At last towards evening he headed to Perry's office in determination.

"Jerry," Perry exclaimed when Jerry came in. "Where on earth have you been? I've had Paul Drake looking everywhere!"

Jerry sighed, sinking into the chair in front of the desk. "I'm sorry, Perry," he said. "I was out walking around the city, trying to think."

"Captain McVey told me you ran into your stalker," Perry said. "And that you had some kind of conversation with him. Is that what's got you so upset?"

"Well . . ." Jerry debated with himself before replying. "Yes, it is. Perry, I know I must be out of my mind or at least seriously deluded, but . . ." He shook his head. "I keep feeling like that man is Mike."

Perry looked down at his clasped hands. "I was afraid you felt that way," he said.

"I know it's what I'm supposed to think," Jerry countered. "What they want me to think. And they've done an excellent job." He shook his head. "I pretty much came out and asked him if he was Mike. The odd thing is, if he's supposed to be perpetrating that idea, he denied it instead. And he all but admitted he's under some kind of mind-control. He said he didn't want to hurt me."

"That's good," Perry said. "Perhaps if we find him he'll be willing to talk and blow the whistle on Dr. Portman."

Jerry nodded, but he looked far away. "He might," he consented.

Perry looked at him in concern. "Jerry, you haven't told me everything," he said. "There's more to what's bothering you, isn't there?"

Jerry hesitated. "Perry . . ." He shifted uncomfortably. "I said he denied being Caldwell. That's true. But it was more of a roundabout denial. He said 'The man you knew as Captain Caldwell is dead.' Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but phrasing it that way could mean several things."

Perry gave a slow nod. "I believe I see what you mean," he said. "You're saying that he might have meant he is Caldwell, just not the one you knew. That he's changed indescribably since then."

"That's right. I got the feeling he was really agonized over the mind-control, that he felt the struggle made him less of a man." Jerry brought a hand to the side of his face. "I don't know, Perry. I shouldn't even be telling you this, but I had to get it off my chest somehow. And I couldn't see myself telling it to some bartender I've never met."

"I'm glad you told me, Jerry," Perry assured him.

"What I don't understand is how it could possibly be him," Jerry barreled on. "And if it is, well . . . is it just his body? What if _that's_ what he meant by not being the one I knew?"

"I suppose that would depend on how much you believe in a spirit that lives on after death," Perry said.

"I guess I believe it," Jerry said. "I don't know that I've ever really thought about it before. But Perry, do you know anyone I could talk to? Someone who might have some insight into this mess and an idea of whether or not it's possible for him to be back, body and soul? Then maybe I wouldn't have to feel so insane for thinking it."

"I assume you're talking about someone with a spiritual perspective," Perry said. "The one who might be best-suited to help you is Mignon Germaine. She's a friend of all of ours, but particularly Mr. Burger."

Jerry blinked in surprise. "Do you think he'd introduce me?"

"I'm sure he would," Perry said. "Or I could, if you'd rather."

"If you could, Perry, I'd be grateful," Jerry said.

"Of course." Perry reached for the phone connecting him to Della's office. "Della, see if you can get Mignon Germaine on the line," he requested.

"Alright, Chief," Della replied, the surprise obvious in her voice.

"What is she like?" Jerry wondered. "Ms. Germaine, I mean."

"She's very knowledgeable about the sorts of things you want to ask her," Perry said. With a smile he continued, "If you're wondering what denomination she's partial towards, she practices voodoo."

From Jerry's expression, that was not what he had expected to hear at all.

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg made his way into his office, tossing his hat onto his desk with a gesture of frustration. It had been another long, exasperating day trying to make sense of the murder case and to locate both Dr. Portman and Jerry's stalker. And with the military now involved, they seemed to want to take over every aspect of the investigation. Tragg was not pleased. Even if this was dangerous and unlike what the police had tangled with before, he could not believe that the military had much more experience with the sort of nonsense that Portman had allegedly been doing.

He sank down at his desk, a deep frown crossing his features. Could his anger over being all but pushed off the case have anything to do with that nonsense? He had been troubled ever since learning of the mind-control aspect. Hamilton had been the one to tell him and he had tried to break it gently, knowing that it would particularly upset Tragg now.

"_Of course, it might not be true,"_ he had hurried to add.

"_It probably is,"_ Tragg had growled in response. _"We know that sort of thing is possible through some kind of means. Why not from cold, hard science too?"_

Hamilton had not had an answer for that.

Perhaps Tragg had felt that if he could bring Portman and her operation down, it would somehow vindicate him to himself.

He leaned back with a sigh and a shake of his head. What was he thinking? The military was probably right; they should be the ones handling this case. Or at least, he should not expect to shoulder the majority of the responsibility himself. Portman's madness affected the entire nation, possibly the whole world.

The phone rang, jangling into his thoughts. Not sure whether to be annoyed or grateful, he picked up the receiver. "Tragg," he grunted.

"Lieutenant?" It was Andy. "Something's happened. I don't understand it, but . . ."

"Well?" Tragg leaned forward. "Andy, what's wrong?"

The news he was told snapped him to rigid attention and had him getting up from the desk in one swift motion. "Has Mason been notified yet?" he demanded. "And Mr. Burger?"

"Not yet," Andy said.

"Why don't you call Mr. Burger?" Tragg returned. "I'll call Mason. Or maybe Mr. Burger will want to tell him himself."

Andy gave a quiet sigh. He paused then said, "Well, I would, but I'm needed at the jail right now."

"Alright then!" Tragg retorted. "I'll notify Mr. Burger."

"Alright, Lieutenant!" Andy said, much too quickly. "I'll see you later."

Tragg glared at the phone as it clicked. "That sneaky . . . he wanted me to do it." He shook his head before proceeding to dial. "The next thing he'll be doing is throwing me together with Lieutenant Drumm on some part of this case."

But he could not help a bit of a smile in spite of himself. Andy was determined to help Tragg keep those friendships alive.

"Hello?" he said when Leon came on. "This is Lieutenant Tragg. Is Mr. Burger still in?"

"Yes, he is," Leon said in surprise. "I'll connect you, Lieutenant."

In a moment the phone clicked again. "Tragg?" Hamilton said in greater surprise. "What's going on? I didn't think I'd hear from you." He was clearly glad that Tragg was calling. Tragg regretted that he had to bring ill news.

"Well, to be honest, I didn't think you'd be hearing from me either," Tragg said. "Mr. Burger, I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but there's been a new development in the Elaine Darrow case."

"What? Tragg, what's going on?"

The news left Hamilton in a stunned daze. "You're sure?" he gasped.

"Andy's sure," Tragg said. "He's gone down there now."

"Alright. Thank you for telling me." Hamilton got up, taking the phone away from his ear at the same time. Grabbing his hat and coat, he hastened to the door.

xxxx

Perry hung up with Mignon, looking to Jerry in confirmation. "She'll talk with you," he said. "But she'll need to leave for her job soon, so we'll have to go right now."

"That suits me fine," Jerry said in relief. "Thanks, Perry."

"No trouble," Perry said.

They were about to leave when Della knocked on the office door and eased it open. "Perry?" she called. "Mr. Burger is here. I'm not sure what's going on, but he says it's urgent."

Perry looked up with a start. "Show him in, Della," he said.

Jerry began to rise from the chair. "Should I leave?" he wondered. "I mean, if this is supposed to be a private council."

"Oh no," Hamilton said as he stepped inside. "No, it's alright. You might as well hear this. Della too. You'll both know before long."

Perry came over to his fellow attorney. "Hamilton, don't keep us in suspense," he exclaimed. "What's happened?"

Hamilton looked to him, chillingly serious. "Perry, Elaine Darrow was just found dead in her cell," he said. "It looks like suicide."


	7. Sheet

**Chapter Seven**

Perry and Della were both stunned and stricken by Hamilton's announcement. Jerry was bewildered.

"Why would she kill herself?" he burst out. "You would have got her off, Perry."

"I don't know," Perry frowned. He glanced at the clock. "I should get to the jail. I'm sorry, Jerry, I won't be able to go to Mrs. Germaine's with you."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Why do you want to see Mignon?" he asked, shooting a bewildered glance at Jerry.

Now Jerry was embarrassed. "Oh . . . it's a long story," he said. "Nevermind about that." He looked to Perry. "It's alright, Perry. I'll go by myself. I'm sorry about your client."

"So am I," Perry said. "Della, let's go."

"I'm right with you, Chief," Della assured, trailing after him.

xxxx

Elaine Darrow's cell was eerie and cold. Della gasped when she, Perry, and Hamilton were shown to it. The body had already been removed, but that did little to alleviate the horror of the scene. A sheet had been tied around the top bars of the cell door. A police photographer was snapping pictures from the inside. Andy was standing by, grimly watching.

"Andy, what happened?" Perry demanded as they approached.

Andy looked up. "It looks like she tried to hang herself as best as she could under the circumstances," he said. "We haven't found a note." He sighed.

"Don't you find it strange that she would do this?" Perry asked.

"Yes," Andy returned. "But many suicides are strange, Perry. There doesn't seem to be a motive for them. And yet they happen."

Hamilton looked to Perry. "You're not suggesting that maybe Elaine Darrow was murdered," he said in surprise.

"No," Perry said. "I'm just wondering what could have prompted this." He stepped closer. "Was the door dusted for fingerprints?"

"Only Elaine's and a guard's are on the door," Andy said. "And only Elaine's on the top bars. There's absolutely no indication that it wasn't a suicide."

Della bit her lip, walking further away from the scene. She was terribly uncomfortable being here and seeing this. In all the years Perry had been an attorney, nothing such as this had ever happened to one of his clients. And Della had been fond of Elaine. They had talked just yesterday. How could this have happened? Why?

She stopped walking and turned back. Perry was still talking with Andy and Mr. Burger. He surely must be troubled too. It was horrible, suicide or not. And he had invested so much into trying to help Elaine. Why would she throw all of that away?

Perry looked up as Della came over again. Her restlessness had not been lost on him; he knew she must be badly shaken.

"You don't have to stay, Della," he said. "I'll call you a cab."

But she shook her head. "I'll stay," she said, firmly.

"Are you sure?" Hamilton asked in concern.

"Yes, Mr. Burger. I'm sure," Della nodded.

Perry searched her eyes with a frown, uncertain and concerned himself. But she met his gaze with the resolution that he knew all too well. She was indeed going to stay.

"Alright," he said at last.

xxxx

Mignon opened the door at the sound of the doorbell ringing. An eyebrow rose in surprise at the unknown man on the porch.

"You must be Major Reynolds," she said, taking in his uniform. "I am Mignon Germaine. Where is Mr. Mason? He said you were both coming."

Jerry sighed, holding out a hand to shake. "Mr. Mason couldn't come after all," he said. "Something happened with one of his cases. But thank you for agreeing to see me, Ms. Germaine, and on such short notice."

Mignon accepted his hand and gave it one brief shake. "Please come in, Major." She stepped aside, allowing Jerry into the parlor. "I hope Mr. Mason is well."

"Well . . ." Jerry hesitated. "I don't know if I'm supposed to discuss what happened."

"There's no need. Let's discuss your problem." Mignon walked ahead, leading him into the living room. "Mr. Mason said you were concerned about the state of the spirit after death."

"That's . . . simplifying it, but yes," Jerry said. He took off his hat as he followed. "More specifically I . . ." He took a deep breath. "I'm wondering what might happen if there was a man already dead, who had been dead for a while."

Mignon stopped but did not turn around. "How long is 'a while'?"

Jerry considered the question. "It couldn't have been that long," he realized. "A few hours, maybe. If they'd waited too long the body would have started to decompose." He shuddered in horror. With this idea, Caldwell probably would have been alive even as Jerry had been tried for his murder—or at least, at that point he certainly he would have been in the grasp of whoever had managed to bring him back.

Mignon was standing at a table now, leafing through the pages of a thick book. "You'll have to tell me more, Major Reynolds. I've never been able to read minds."

Jerry snapped back to the present. "Oh . . . of course. I'm sorry." He shifted. It was mortifying to even be talking about something so impossible. But he had to know. He had to know what she thought.

"What I'm trying to ask, Ms. Germaine, is what if the body fell into the hands of someone experimenting with reviving the dead. And what if this person or persons managed to get the body clinically alive again?" Jerry stepped closer. "Would the spirit go back in it? Would it _be able_ to go back in it? Even if it had already crossed to the afterlife?"

Mignon finally looked up. "Are you familiar with near-death experiences, Major Reynolds?" she queried.

Jerry was surprised. "I . . . I've heard of them," he admitted. "I never knew whether to think they were real or not."

"Often the person's heart and breathing stop and they leave their bodies," Mignon said. "But if the heart begins again to beat, either from the medics' intervention or by a higher power, the spirit returns, as though called back. There are many accounts of this happening even while the spirit is in the afterlife."

Jerry frowned. "So it's like restarting the heart somehow jolts the spirit back into the body?"

"Something like that," Mignon said. "Perhaps it could be described as an invisible string between the heart and the spirit. When the heart stops, the string goes slack and the spirit leaves. If the heart restarts, the string jerks and pulls the spirit back from wherever it has wandered."

Jerry shook his head. "It's so strange to think about," he said. "So what you're saying is that these people working on the body wouldn't ever—_couldn't_ ever—just have an empty shell? The spirit would have to be there?"

"I would think so," said Mignon. "Unless of course we're talking about zombies. Zombies are not alive. There is no breath, no heartbeat, in a reanimated corpse. It is little more than a puppet, under the control of whoever performed the ritual to summon it."

A chill went up Jerry's spine. "Zombies have all the damage from death, don't they?" he asked. "If the death was a violent one, I mean."

"I wouldn't see any valid reason for repairing it, even if someone could," Mignon said. "Those who practice the black magic of summoning zombies usually want them for the purpose of hurting someone. The corpses are manipulated without regard for decay or wounds. Since they are not operating under their own power, their physical state doesn't matter."

Jerry slumped back in partial relief. "I don't think we're talking about zombies."

"If you saw one, Major, I'm quite sure it would be impossible for you not to know it," Mignon returned. Her brown-eyed gaze bored into his troubled orbs. "Do you believe you've seen someone you thought was dead?"

"No!" Jerry exclaimed. "I mean, I . . . I know the person was dead. And now I'm not sure if I've been seeing him or an impostor."

Mignon considered that. "Is there something you could ask him that an impostor could never know?"

Jerry wavered. Was there? He and Caldwell had been friends long ago. There must be something, some secret just between them. But if there was, it had fled his mind.

He shook his head. "I can't think of anything, honestly."

Mignon did not seem concerned. "Sometimes the best guides are not memories, but feelings. What do you feel about this person? Deep in your heart, who do you feel he is?"

Jerry took a moment to analyze, wondering if his impressions would change. They did not.

"I feel he's Captain Michael Caldwell," he said at last. "Not an impostor, but the genuine article."

"Then, Major Reynolds," Mignon said, "that is the angle you should pursue first."

"But . . ." Jerry shook his head. "How is it even possible? That's what I keep coming back to. You see, the left side of his skull was crushed." He jabbed a finger at the general area on his own head. "A lot of brain tissue was damaged. Perry was right; there's no way anyone could come back from that. Not without being a vegetable. And this man is in perfect . . . well, almost perfect health!"

Mignon thought for a moment. "These people supposedly doing experiments," she said. "Perhaps they found a way to do the seemingly unthinkable and repair everything?"

"If the man I'm seeing is Caldwell, they would have had to," Jerry said. "He's fine, except for what looks like part of a scar on his left temple."

"Major Reynolds." Mignon stepped closer. "Don't think about the _how_ at this point. If you believe this man is Captain Caldwell, then you need to find him again."

She paused. "Strangely enough, I saw a military man last night," she mused. "He may have been a captain; I don't know."

Jerry stared. "Did he say anything to you?"

"Not much," Mignon said. "And he didn't want to divulge his identity. He said it would be better if I didn't know it and that I wouldn't believe it anyway."

This was a stunning piece of news. And eerily enough, it would fit right in with the man being Captain Caldwell. Who _would_ believe something like that?

Jerry swallowed hard. "What did he look like?"

Mignon's description only confirmed that it was the person who had stalked Jerry from Vandenberg to Los Angeles. Jerry fumbled with his hat, almost dropping it. "And you think that whoever it was, there was definitely a spirit in that body," he said.

"The man did not behave as a soulless husk." Mignon's response was immediate. "He was very much alive. But he was troubled; there's no question of that."

Jerry frowned. "He was troubled when I saw him too," he said. "And that's putting it mildly." He started to turn to leave. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Germaine. I really appreciate it."

"I hope you find the answers you're looking for, Major Reynolds," Mignon returned.

"So do I," Jerry declared.

xxxx

Paul sighed in exasperation. The day had been long and tedious, filled with fruitless searches for Jerry's stalker as well as information that would help clear Elaine. And then Perry had called him towards evening and told him that Elaine was dead. Paul had been shocked.

"_Do you want me to come out there?"_ he had demanded.

"_No,"_ Perry had answered. _"We still need whatever you might be able to find. Elaine needs to be cleared, even if only posthumously. What's more, now we need to know what led her to her death."_

It was a tall order. From what else Perry had told him, no one had been seen going in or out of the cellblock. By all indications, Elaine had indeed killed herself. Even Perry did not know that he believed otherwise. And the reason for it might have existed in her mind and nowhere else. But somehow, Paul was supposed to find the motive.

Steve, albeit reluctant, had agreed to let Paul look through Elaine's impounded car—once the police were finished with it, of course. He had just called to let Paul know they were done and he could come out. So the impound yard was his next stop.

Or it would have been, if Lieutenant Tragg had not suddenly run across the street.

Paul slammed on the brakes. "What the . . . what's Tragg _doing?_" he exclaimed to nothing in particular. He got out of the car and chased down the veteran policeman. "Hey! Wait up!"

Tragg barely glanced over his shoulder. "I finally caught a glimpse of that fellow we've been after all day," he barked. "He went into that vacant house." He pointed to a darkened abode on the corner.

Paul stopped short, frowning at it in disbelief. "In _there?_ No one's lived in that place for months!"

"The door was unlocked," Tragg said. "He just turned the knob and walked in." He drew his gun as he approached the edge of the property. "There's no telling what he might do. We were instructed that he's quite possibly dangerous."

"He probably is," Paul acknowledged. "Are you going to try taking him all by yourself?"

"That was the plan," Tragg said. "But if you want to play cops and robbers, you can swing around to the other side of the house in case he tries to make a break for it back there."

Paul frowned but complied. It was not every day that Tragg wanted him to do something. Either he just wanted to get Paul out of his way . . . or he thought maybe he really would need backup, no matter who it might be.

"This is the police!" he heard Tragg call sternly from the porch. "Open up!"

There was no response. At last Tragg kicked the door in and stepped over the threshold, his gun gripped in his hand.

Paul moved closer to the house, peering through the window in the backdoor. Everything was dark. The only thing moving was Tragg, advancing down the hall.

Paul took a handkerchief and turned the knob. The door opened without incident. He slipped inside, braced for any possible attack. Tragg frowned as he glanced over, but said nothing. Paul peered into first one back room, then another, without results. Up the hall, Tragg's luck was not any better.

"Are you _sure_ the guy came in here?" Paul demanded when they met in the middle.

"Yeah," Tragg growled. "I'm just not sure he's the one we want."

"I'm not sure he's anyone at all," Paul said. "Maybe he already sneaked out."

"There's still the basement," Tragg retorted.

It also proved empty, as far as mysterious intruders were concerned. But something on the floor quickly captured Tragg's attention. "Eh? What's this?" He bent down with a handkerchief, not wanting to destroy any possible prints.

Paul perked up. "What is it?" he asked, coming over.

Tragg straightened. "A metal nameplate," he announced. "With quite a familiar name engraved in it." He held it out, handkerchief and all, in the palm of his hand.

Paul stared. "'Elaine Darrow'?"

Tragg nodded. "In light of this, I think that perhaps I'd better get the lab boys out here," he said. "Who knows what other interesting trinkets they might turn up?"

"Yeah," Paul said, dazed. "Who knows."

xxxx

Hamilton walked away from the scene at Elaine's cell with Perry and Della. There was little more that could be done there; the police had finished their examination of the scene without locating any clues. The lawyers' subsequent investigation had also revealed nothing of value.

"I'm sorry about this, Perry," Hamilton said. "I never thought this case would end with a suicide."

"Nor did I," Perry said. He shook his head. "Elaine seemed fine when we saw her last. I can hardly believe something such as this was in her mind."

"Well . . . that's what they say about a lot of suicides," Hamilton said.

"I know," Perry nodded. "But that doesn't change how surreal this feels."

"Is there any way it could have been murder?" Della spoke up from where she was walking on Perry's other side.

"It certainly doesn't seem so," Perry said. "Not that I would want it to be, but I hate to think of poor Elaine taking her own life."

Hamilton sighed. "Talk about locked-room murders. I just don't see how anything else is possible, Perry. Just suppose someone really was trying to kill her. Surely she'd try to fight them off. But the other inmates said they didn't hear anything."

"So she just tied the sheet to the top of the door and quietly strangled herself," Perry frowned. "I can't help feeling that we're missing an important piece of the puzzle somewhere. And I realize I might simply be in denial, Hamilton," he added, holding up a hand to silence any protests. "But I can't rest until I'm sure."

"Alright," Hamilton relented. "I know how you get. Do what you have to do."

"Are you going home, Mr. Burger?" Della asked.

"No," Hamilton said. "Not yet. I have to go back to the office for a while. But I don't have any intention of staying up as late as your boss probably will." He already looked tired.

"See that you don't, Hamilton," Perry said. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Hamilton nodded, vaguely aware that he was bidding Perry and Della goodbye as he went off in another direction. He was already caught up in thoughts of what he needed to do back at his office. And, of course, he was worn out from the long and unexpected day.

The drive back was mostly a foggy blur, an automatic impulse. He spent the time pondering over what had taken place over the last few days, trying in vain desperation to make some sense out of it all. Major Reynolds, Captain Caldwell, Elaine Darrow, Dr. Portman. . . . How did they all connect? Why had Elaine killed herself? Were those mysterious chips really for controlling people's minds? That couldn't be possible. And yet . . . what if . . .

He muttered in frustration. This mystery, like what had happened last month, was filled with too many _what ifs._ And also like last time, he did not like having to consider those _what ifs._

He came to attention when he arrived inside the building and got out of the elevator on the level of his office. All of the lights were off, even the dim ones meant to help the custodians. And the figure barreling towards him in the dark was most unusual.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Who . . ."

He never had a chance to get out more. The unknown person pushed him to the floor while tearing past and hopping into the elevator.

Hamilton started to rise, squinting at the numbers. Whoever it was seemed to be heading for the ground floor. He got up, fumbling for the light switch. He had to alert security now. Maybe they could stop the intruder when he arrived.

As the lights came on Hamilton surveyed the floor in shock. Both the doors to his outer and inner offices were stretching wide open. And beyond the second door, his office had been completely ransacked.

He hurried to Leon's desk and grabbed the telephone, pressing the button for security. "Hello? Seal off this building," he ordered. "There's been a break-in."

The man on the other end of the phone was starting to reply when a loud and painful punch resounded through the receiver. The security guard groaned, apparently dropping the phone and crashing to the floor. Now all that Hamilton could hear was the sound of echoing footsteps running away.

"Hello?" he called. "Hello?" But it was useless. The guard was probably unconscious and there was no one else nearby.

Hamilton pressed the dial tone button in frustration. He would have to call the police and hope that someone was near enough to apprehend the burglar. And after the police came and spent a lengthy time in his office, he would have to go over everything and figure out what was missing.

Why would anyone take something from there? If they were after a file, there were multiple copies of those, and not all of them in the building. But what else could they want?

The lights extinguished in the next moment, the phone following suit shortly after. Hamilton's jaw dropped. The intruder had paused to fiddle with the main breakers and the telephone line instead of just hurrying to leave.

Why?


	8. Rock

**Notes: I'm sorry about the delay with this chapter. Some other projects captured my attention at the first of the week, and then Davy Jones' death sent me for a loop. I actually have a story called **_**Lullaby of Silence**_** that I'm crossing over with **_**The Monkees **_**TV show, **_**Kolchak: The Night Stalker**_**, and **_**Perry**_**, if anyone's interested in that. It's going to be a strange and creepy ride, that's for sure.**

**Chapter Eight**

Hamilton wasted little time in being appalled by the burglar's actions. He pulled out his cellphone and dialed the police, at the same time checking Leon's desk for a flashlight. A squad car was nearby and soon arrived; however, the intruder had apparently fled not only the building but also the entire area.

"Mr. Burger, we're sorry about this," apologized Officer Reed when they returned and the building was again illuminated.

Officer Malloy nodded. "Do you have any idea what someone would come in here to get?"

"No," Hamilton said in exasperation. He walked around the police photographer. "When your men are done in here I'll try to figure out what's missing, if anything."

Reed nodded. "Oh, and we have a message for you from Lieutenant Tragg," he reported. "He said that Elaine Darrow's nameplate was found in a house at this address." He handed Hamilton a piece of paper. "He has a team out there now looking for anything else they can come up with."

Hamilton blinked in surprise. "Thanks," he said, accepting the paper and glancing over it.

xxxx

Jerry was a man on a mission.

For the first time, he _wanted_ to be stalked. And if and when it happened, he was determined to catch the mysterious and tortured man in the act. Somehow, someway, he had to corner him and not let him get away.

Captain McVey wanted the same thing. Jerry did not know if they could or should work together on it. If they didn't, he supposed, McVey might try to spirit the stalker away before Jerry had another opportunity to talk with him.

Jerry wanted that most of all. If his stalker was Captain Caldwell, by any stretch of the imagination, then he wanted to talk until he could get the man to admit it. Maybe if he would stop running Jerry could help him get the chip, if it existed, turned off. And maybe he would help the military, in turn, catch Dr. Portman.

He took out his phone, dialing Perry's number. As it rang he stood on the sidewalk, glancing to all points within his line of sight. Was he alone? Was he being watched by someone other than McVey and his assistant?

Just supposing the man _was_ Caldwell. What would happen to him when all of this was over? Would he be restored to his position in the Air Force? Jerry's face grew troubled. What if they did not believe that he had been fighting against some kind of control? What if they thought he had done everything of his own accord?

What if he _had?_

No, Jerry could not believe that. Not after what he had seen. At the same time, he was not completely sure he believed it was a mind-control chip, either.

And if it was, what if it could not be turned off? Or at least, what if it could not be removed without life-threatening risk? There was no telling where it had been placed. But the stalker seemed to have bad headaches half the time. What if the chip had been implanted in his brain when the physical damage had been repaired?

Jerry groaned aloud. That was not any more impossible than anything else that had happened, perhaps less so, in fact—but he was starting to feel as though his imagination were running away with him. And he did not like that one bit.

At last there was a _click._ "Hello?"

Jerry perked up. "Perry?"

"Jerry." Perry had sounded tense and occupied at first, but upon realizing his caller's identity he perked up. "How was your visit with Mrs. Germaine?"

"Oh, very interesting," Jerry said. "And very informative."

"Did you find the answers you were hoping for?"

Jerry had to frown. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I don't know what I believe. But I do know what I'm going to do now."

"Good," Perry said, surprised. "Are you going to let me in on it?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I was hoping for your help, Perry. Yours and Mr. Drake's." Jerry hesitated. "I want to find a way to corner Mi- . . . the man who's been stalking me and get him to come with us. Maybe if he's around us long enough he'll tell us something."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. "That's all very well and fine," Perry said, "but do you have any idea how you're going to corner him?"

"I can't think of any way other than to get several people together and be ready to close in on him from all angles when he turns up next," Jerry said. "He might be strong enough to overpower me one-on-one, but if there's three or four of us even he'd be outmatched."

"I'm sure Paul would be willing to help," Perry said. "But he might be tied up right now; he was following another lead with Lieutenant Tragg. Do you want us to meet you somewhere right away?"

"The sooner the better," Jerry said. "I don't know when I'll see him again, but I'd like to be prepared."

"Alright. I'll call Paul and see if he's available now." Perry paused. "And Jerry, be careful. If you meet up with that man before we get there, don't try to take him on by yourself."

"I won't," Jerry said. "Not unless I don't have a choice."

"Let's hope that doesn't happen," Perry returned.

"I hope not too," Jerry said. "Oh, but Perry. Even if you and Mr. Drake can come, please don't try to grab him too soon. Just . . . kind of _be there_, ready to intercept him if he tries to get away. I want to try talking to him first, even if he wants to fight me."

Perry frowned. "I'm not sure that's safe," he said.

"If you're right there it should be fine," Jerry said. "Please, Perry."

At last Perry let out a deep breath. "Alright," he said. "But Jerry. If I decide it's getting too dangerous, I'll interfere. Make no mistake about that."

For a moment Jerry was silent. But then he sighed. "Alright, Perry. I'll see you later."

After hanging up with Jerry, Perry placed a quick phone call to Paul. He leaned back, waiting as the phone rang. After what seemed far longer than it actually was, the welcome _click_ came. "Hello?"

"Hello, Paul," Perry greeted. "How are things at that house?" He had received, much to his surprise, the news of Paul and Tragg uncovering Elaine's nameplate there just as he and Della were leaving the jail.

Paul let out an exasperated sigh. "Not that exciting, unfortunately," he said. "The nameplate seems to be the only thing that was in here. And there's no sign of Jerry's stalker."

"Jerry is for once hoping that his stalker shows up with him," Perry said.

"_What?"_ Paul cried.

"He has a plan to corner the man," Perry continued. "And he wants our help."

"Okay, I'm game," said Paul. "When does he want to do this?"

"As soon as possible," Perry said. "I told him I'd see if you were free."

"There's not much more to do here," Paul said. "I'm sure Tragg would be just fine with it if I got out of his hair. I'll meet you back at the office."

"Alright," Perry said. "See you then."

He hung up, pondering Jerry's plan and if it would work as desired. So far, nothing had seemed to go the way it was supposed to. He wondered if it was too much to hope that the plan would cooperate.

It probably was, he decided. And quite possibly not safe for Jerry.

xxxx

Hamilton was kneeling on the floor, still gathering fallen papers and folders, when the door creaked open further. Thinking it was the police returning he asked, "What did you find out?"

But it was a much different voice that answered him. "Mr. Burger! What happened?"

Hamilton jumped a mile. "Howie?" He turned to look. Indeed, it was Howie Peterson running into the room, staring with wide eyes and open mouth at the mess. "Howie, what are you doing here?" he exclaimed. "Do your parents know?"

"Well, I left a note," Howie said. "I came to see you, but there was this strange guy in the building. I didn't think he was supposed to be here. I wanted to call the security guards, but then he saw me and I ran. I ran and ran and found a closet. I thought sure he was coming after me! But nothing happened. Well . . . until I tried to get out." He looked down, shamed.

Hamilton set the material aside on his desk. "Were you locked in the closet?" he demanded.

Howie nodded. "Yeah, I kind of was. And I didn't wanna call for help; I thought that guy would hear me. So I just kept staying in there until I heard these policemen talking. Then I banged for help and they let me out."

Hamilton frowned. "Could that man have locked you in?"

"I don't think so," Howie said. "I would've heard him out there. It must've just slipped."

"Did you get a good look at him?" Hamilton was both alarmed and hopeful. Maybe Howie could shed some light on the burglar's identity. In any case, he was lucky that he had only been locked in a closet. So much worse could have happened to him.

"Well . . ." Now Howie frowned. "He looked kind of like a military guy. . . ."

Hamilton stared in disbelief. Jerry's stalker had broken into his office? "What else?" he asked.

"He had dark hair. . . . Looked kind of upset." Howie blinked at Hamilton in surprise. "Do you think you know him?"

Hamilton sighed. "I might." He stood and reached for the phone. In a moment he had Perry on the line and was telling him Howie's story.

Howie waited, wandering around the office and picking up stacks of papers where he could. Noticing a shiny bit of metal among the sheets, he bent down and reached for it.

Still on the phone, Hamilton glanced over at him. "What's that?" he wanted to know.

"Hamilton?" Perry sounded somewhat confused.

Hamilton sighed. "I'm sorry, Perry. Howie found something on the floor. I was asking him what it was." He held out his free hand for it as Howie came over to him.

Howie dropped it onto his palm. "It's some name thing, I guess," he said.

Hamilton stared at it, taking particular note of the letters. "It's another nameplate," he reported to Perry. "And this one is Captain Caldwell's."

Perry was silent a moment. "That's odd," he said. "First Elaine's in that house, now Captain Caldwell's in your office. And Howie said he saw a military man. I don't know, Hamilton. It almost seems too pat."

"It seems to fit," Hamilton said. "The guy's behavior when he ran out reminded me of what you've said about the man stalking Jerry. Not to mention the guy I almost ran into on the street."

"That's just it, Hamilton," Perry replied. "I have to wonder now if someone's trying to implicate Captain Caldwell—or whoever is following Jerry—in the office break-in. And maybe they're also trying to implicate Elaine in being at that house."

"I suppose it's possible," Hamilton frowned. "But what would be the point?"

"I don't know," Perry admitted. "Oh. I'm sorry, Hamilton, I have to go. Paul and I are meeting with Jerry to try to catch his mysterious stalker."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Alright, Perry. Good luck with that."

"Thanks."

Howie watched with interest as Hamilton hung up the phone. "What are you going to do with that thing?" he wondered, peering at the nameplate.

"Well, I guess I'll turn it over to the police and see if they can find any fingerprints on it," Hamilton said. "But if Perry's right and it was put here on purpose, it's probably wiped clean except for our prints."

"I just touched the edges," Howie offered.

"That's good," Hamilton said. He wrapped it in a handkerchief and put it in his pocket. "It's getting late. I'd better get you home."

"Aww. Can't I stay and help?" Howie protested. "I was locked in that closet a long time."

". . . You're right," Hamilton consented. "That wouldn't be much fun. Okay, I'll tell you what. I'll call your parents and see if it's alright for you to stay longer."

Howie brightened. "Okay!" he chirped.

Hamilton held up a hand. "But if they want you to come home, you have to promise not to protest," he added.

Howie nodded. "It's a deal!"

Hamilton smiled a bit as he reached for the phone again. "Alright."

xxxx

The night was dark as well as chilly. Paul pulled his beige trenchcoat closer around him as he and Perry roamed the streets, hoping they were staying far enough away from Jerry that his stalker wouldn't pay them any heed.

"We've been at this for almost an hour already," he said in exasperation. "It's late by now. Do you really think that guy will show up?"

"I just don't know," Perry frowned. If he was bothered by the cold, he gave no heed. "Maybe he knows we're here. Or maybe after his encounter with Jerry he's been fighting harder to resist the chip. He might have succeeded."

"Or maybe he's running around town breaking into public officials' offices," Paul said. "Perry, do you really think someone could have been trying to frame him at Burger's office?"

"I think it's a possibility," Perry said. "And he could have planted Elaine's nameplate too. You said Tragg thought he saw the man going into that house."

"Well, he did think so," Paul returned. "Perry, this guy is off his rocker. What would stop _him_ from running around deliberately leaving those things, instead of an impostor doing it?"

"Nothing," Perry said. "Except I keep going back to that encounter Jerry had in the morning. The man vehemently denied his supposed identity. He didn't want Jerry to think that he was Captain Caldwell at all."

"So why would he leave Caldwell's nameplate in Burger's office," Paul finished with a knowing sigh.

Perry smiled. "Exactly."

"I guess you've got a point," Paul said. "As always."

Perry was only half-listening. He reached out, grabbing Paul's upper arm. "Paul!"

Paul snapped to attention. Jerry, who had been wandering aimlessly to give the impression that this was just another walk to blow off steam, had paused at a street corner to look for traffic. And emerging from the alley behind him was a man in blue uniform.

"So he showed up after all," Paul breathed. "Okay, Perry, you come at him from the right and I'll go in from the left."

Perry nodded. "And Captain McVey and Lieutenant Philips should approach from other angles."

Paul started. "They're in on this?"

"They had to be," Perry said. "Captain McVey is determined to follow Jerry around until he gets some answers."

Indeed, McVey and Philips were coming out. On Perry's signal, he and Paul moved in as well. Jerry turned, completing the star-like formation as he came towards his stalker head-on.

"Alright," he called. "Now we're going to get some answers."

But the other man was not in any mood to go down easily. He stood erect, showing no hints of fighting the effects of the chip. "I don't think so, Major Reynolds," he returned with a sneer. "Did you really think I wasn't aware that you had an entourage with you?"

Jerry stopped short, stunned. "You knew?" he gasped. "Then why would you still come?"

"Because I'm tired of these games, as you apparently are as well," was the reply. "I intend to see it all end tonight."

Perry's eyes narrowed. "Does that mean you're going to kill Major Reynolds?" he demanded. "After all the times you've tried so hard to avoid it?"

The stalker whirled to face him. His eyes were cold and hard. "That's exactly what it means," he retorted. He turned back to Jerry with an eerie and cruel laugh. "You see, _Major,_ any remorse or hesitant feelings I had are gone."

Jerry clenched a fist. "No," he shot back. "I won't believe that. You didn't want to hurt me. I saw that earlier today. I can't believe those feelings are all erased."

"Nor can I," Perry said. "You have to keep fighting the thing that's making you say this. If you do kill Major Reynolds, I promise you that you will regret it when you come back to yourself once more."

For an answer the other man threw a fist in Perry's direction. Perry ducked, barely in time.

Captain McVey leaped into action, grabbing for the stalker's arm. Instead he was kicked and shoved back. As Lieutenant Philips ran at him from behind he whirled, delivering a vicious punch in the jaw. Philips tumbled back, his balance compromised.

Jerry reached to steady him, then ran past and towards the one who had been following him for the last several weeks. "Mike, no!" he cried. "Stop!"

The rage in the stalker's eyes as he spun around could scarcely be equaled. "I'm _not_ Mike!" he snarled. He lunged at Jerry, intent on tackling him to the ground. Jerry fought to hold his stance, grabbing for his opponent's wrists.

Paul started to move forward, ready to grab hold of him from behind. But Perry reached out, latching onto Paul's arm. "Wait," he ordered. "This is their fight. Let Jerry handle it, unless it becomes clear that he can't."

Paul frowned but stopped. "And how clear does that have to be?" he retorted as the duo fell to the sidewalk, locked in combat. Jerry was trying his best, but he could not match up to the added strength that the other man had gained, possibly from the chip.

McVey went for his gun. "We need him alive," he said, "but that might not be possible."

Perry tensed. He knew that very well. Right now it certainly did not look good. Whatever Jerry was hoping to accomplish, it did not seem to be working. The more he tried to talk to his stalker or address him by Captain Caldwell's name, the more enraged the other man became.

"Just settle down for a moment and listen to me!" Jerry was screaming now. He was flat on his back, his stalker straddling him. A cruel punch sent his head snapping to the side.

"I'm not listening to anything you have to say," was the snarled reply. "I heard enough. I heard enough years ago, when you betrayed me to save your own skin! I never lied to you. _Never!_ I thought you would back me up. I thought you would tell them the truth! But you were just concerned about what would happen to _you!_" In a blind fury, he struck Jerry once, then twice. Grabbing up the nearest object, he moved to hurl it at Jerry's head.

Now Perry could hang back no longer. He ran over, the others right on his heels. But Jerry's next words stopped all of them in their tracks.

"Mike! You're going to kill me the same way you were killed?"

Even his stalker froze. Slowly, trembling, he turned to look at the large, jagged rock he was gripping in his hand. His eyes widened in disbelieving horror. The rock fell from his fingers, crashing on the pavement. The tortured man backed away, sinking to his knees on the pavement.

"I'm sorry!" he cried. "I told you to stay away from me. I was afraid this would happen. I knew it would, sooner or later. I couldn't control myself! I . . . I couldn't!" He looked up, his eyes filled with torment. "I don't want to kill you, Jerry. Please believe me, I . . . I don't . . ."

Jerry sat up, gazing at him with sadness. "I know, Mike," he said. "I know." He extended his hand, resting it on the other's shaking shoulder.

At first there was only a flinch in reply. But then Captain Michael Caldwell closed his eyes, gripping Jerry's hand in silent desperation. Jerry had brought him back to himself. Now, although he was still afraid of what he might do, he was more afraid of what might happen if he left. The chip was still stirring within him. And Dr. Portman was probably nearing the end of her patience. If alone again, he might lose control all the more and much sooner.

Perry slowly relaxed. "It's alright now," he said to the others. "For a little while, anyway."


	9. Identity

**Chapter Nine**

"Who are you?"

Captain Caldwell glowered at Perry from where he was sitting in the latter's office. Perry was supporting himself with one hand on the top of the soft chair, frowning at the other man. Captain McVey was standing guard at the door, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Jerry, over by the balcony doors, was also tense.

"Jerry is convinced you're his friend," Perry continued. "That's why he went to such near-fatal risks to bring you in.

"But I'm afraid I don't know what to believe. After all, Captain Michael Caldwell is dead. I saw his body myself. And you have denied to Jerry that you are he. Yet at the same time you behave as though you are—or at least as though you have been heavily tutored on what he was like. If you are deliberately trying to lead Jerry on in a falsehood, I promise you that you will regret it."

Caldwell's eyes narrowed all the more. "I haven't tried to lead him into anything, Mr. Mason." He set aside the small cup of water he had been drinking. "You're right, Captain Caldwell is dead. Or he was supposed to be, anyway."

He looked to McVey. "You've taken my fingerprints, Captain. You'll have the results back soon enough."

He turned to Jerry, who was gripping a cup of his own by the glass doors. "You're right too, Major. You've been right all along. I _was_ Captain Michael Caldwell, in another life. Now I'm forced to play his ghost. I'm a pathetic fraud; I'm not a ghost, even if I feel like one." He started to unbutton the coat of his uniform. "I don't deserve to wear this."

Jerry clutched the cup all the tighter. "Ms. Germaine was right, then," he breathed. "And so was I. Dr. Portman brought you back to life."

"With a neurosurgeon associate of hers," Caldwell said darkly.

McVey shook his head. "I can't believe a story like this," he said. "The _Air Force at large_ can't believe it. Mind-control, alright, I can possibly swallow that. But reviving the dead? Repairing your _brain?_ After what was done to it?" He folded his arms. "It's just not done."

"I agree with you," Caldwell said. "But it was."

Perry frowned. ". . . You have a point about the fingerprints," he acknowledged. "If you're lying we'll know before long. Unless of course Dr. Portman managed to have the real Captain Caldwell's fingerprints removed from the military files and substituted yours for his."

"There wasn't any need." Caldwell stood, walking halfway across the room. "I can't make you believe my identity. I can scarcely believe it myself. There are days when I think it couldn't be true, that I must be someone who only _thinks_ he remembers he was Michael Caldwell." He stopped. "But I know it's true. I know who I was."

Jerry came forward. "Mike, even if you feel like you're someone else now, that Captain Caldwell was a separate life, you're wrong. You _are_ who you are. You always will be."

Mike frowned. "And you believe this so strongly. Why?"

Jerry heaved a sad, regretful sigh. "I don't know. Maybe I'm trying to make up for not believing you in Bosnia. I haven't even questioned the idea that you were lying, until just recently.

"You haven't believed that I was telling the truth, either. If there really was some mix-up with the equipment, that's no one's fault. But what you and I did after that . . . well, that's both our fault. For my part, I'm sorry."

Caldwell searched his eyes, uncertain, suspicious. "You honestly thought I was lying?"

"Yes." Jerry nodded. This was not something he would be airing in front of anyone else, except that in light of what Mike had been screaming in his mind-controlled rage Jerry felt McVey should know the rest of the story. Perry, of course, already knew it.

"We were friends once, Mike," Jerry continued. "Maybe we never can be again. But . . . I think there is some spark of it still there. That's why I fought so hard for you to listen to me tonight." Maybe it was even why Mike had called him by his first name tonight, on the sidewalk. He hadn't for years.

Caldwell was still scanning Jerry's eyes. Any hint of vulnerability or consent was absent. He appeared cold and hard instead.

"I didn't want to kill you, Major," he said. "I'm not a murderer. But I doubt very much that we will ever again be friends."

Jerry sighed, defeated. "Alright, Mike. If that's the way you want it." He had backed down so many times in the past when he had seen it was useless. He could see it was again now.

And yet he clung to that memory on the corner, when a devastated and agonized Captain Caldwell had expressed his sorrow and gripped at Jerry's hand. That side of the man was still in there, somewhere. Maybe, now that he had composed himself, he was not willing to let down his guard with others present, even if Jerry was willing.

Jerry looked to Perry and McVey with pleading eyes. "Can we talk alone?"

Perry tensed. McVey said, "Major, with all due respect, I don't think it's safe."

"You can wait right outside the door," Jerry returned.

Perry frowned. Now he was the one studying Jerry's eyes. But at last he nodded. "Alright," he said. He shot a look at Caldwell, who just looked back, unmoved.

Jerry did not speak again until both Perry and McVey had reluctantly filed out of the room. "Mike, I know you're still upset about the past," he said. "But is that the only reason you're acting like this right now?"

Caldwell turned away. "What other reason do you think there could be?" he returned.

"It could be a lot of things," Jerry said. "I know you're a proud man; you always have been. You hate to be vulnerable. You might just be going behind your shield once more. And maybe too, you're afraid the chip will take over again. Maybe you're pushing me away because you don't want me to get too close and then be hurt." His gaze bore into Mike's back. "You acted almost like a friend tonight, after you dropped that rock."

Caldwell's shoulders sagged. "You know, what I don't understand is how you could be so convinced that I was lying in Bosnia and be able to pick me apart so well now."

Jerry shook his head. "I don't understand either. I never should have thought that about you, Mike. I knew you'd never lied to me. I was puzzled, but when the equipment checked out fine I figured that was the only explanation left."

Caldwell turned back to face him. "I did a lot of stupid things back then. But you always knew about them. There were no secrets, no lies." He sighed tiredly. "I guess it's a wonder I lasted as long as I did in that outfit. And that I wasn't outright dismissed when they thought I'd ignored your order."

"I know I wasn't there when you needed me," Jerry said. "But after all these years, even after . . . well, what you've been through with that woman, are you still going to hold that grudge?"

Caldwell gave him a hard look. "No." That was all, no more, no less. He looked so worn out, so resigned. Even he was weary of those feelings now.

He glanced down at the desk. "Why were you so insistent on believing that I wasn't an impostor? I'm not going to believe it's just because you were trying to fix an old misunderstanding."

Jerry held up his hands. "I don't know," he said. "I . . . I just had a feeling." He turned away, embarrassed. "I thought it was just a fool's illusion for a while. But as it went on, especially after I talked to you earlier, I was almost sure. Even though at the same time I knew it couldn't be true."

A dark chuckle rose in Caldwell's throat. "Funny thing, death. I always thought it was permanent. I remember the impact of the rock in my head. Just for a couple of seconds, though. Then everything went black and it was all over. But I don't remember seeing any tunnel or light, like people talk about. The next thing I knew, I was hearing voices all around me. I opened my eyes and Portman and her neurosurgeon were staring down at me. Portman said they'd made a scientific breakthrough of indescribable proportions."

Jerry watched him. "And that was it? You were back to normal? Well, physically, anyway?"

"No." Caldwell shook his head. "I was alive and I had my life's memories. That was about it. I had to relearn pretty much everything else. That's what I've been up to the last few years.

"I heard you were charged with my murder. I'm sorry about that."

"Oh . . . Perry got me off," Jerry said, occupied. He stared at his old friend. "I have to admit, they did do a good job with you. No one would ever be able to guess that you aren't perfectly normal." Caldwell grunted noncommittally. "But . . . who's buried in your grave?"

"I couldn't say." Caldwell was gruff now. "They wouldn't tell me."

"And how did they even get your body in the first place?" Jerry exclaimed.

"I think they had someone on the inside," Caldwell frowned.

"You mean someone in the Air Force?" Jerry's eyes widened.

"Yes." Caldwell went over to the balcony himself. A light rain had started to fall, the drops tapping against the thick glass.

Jerry shifted. "That chip, or whatever it is that's been making you go out of control. It's been quiet the last while, hasn't it?"

"Sometimes it is." Caldwell sounded tense. "But right now Portman's probably assessing the situation, trying to figure out what to do next."

"How would she know?" Jerry retorted.

"The chip sends the information back to her," Caldwell said.

Well . . . that made sense enough, Jerry supposed. From what he knew of the woman, anyway.

"Do you know anything about a woman named Elaine Darrow?" he queried next. "She claimed she was working with Portman as an assistant. She had one of those chips with her."

"Elaine Darrow?" Caldwell turned to look at Jerry in stunned shock. "She wasn't an assistant. She was a project!"

Jerry stiffened. "A . . . a project?" He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "Like you?"

"Not exactly. She wasn't ever dead. But Portman was trying to figure out what made her tick."

"Then why would she say she was an assistant?" Jerry was reeling, still not sure if he believed this. "I didn't talk to her, but Perry was convinced she was telling the truth."

"She probably thought she was too," Caldwell said. "Portman conditioned her to think that she was an assistant."

Jerry stared at him, thunderstruck. Now his mind was turning cartwheels. If Portman could do that, what would keep her from conditioning this man to believe himself Captain Michael Caldwell whether he was or not? Caldwell himself had even said that sometimes he wondered if that were the case. Maybe Jerry was just being a complete fool about this whole entire mess. Maybe Mike really was dead, as he would be in any logical situation, and this actually was an impostor. An impostor who didn't _know_ he was an impostor.

Only . . . even if Portman had managed to find out the basics of Caldwell's personality and some of the various events in his life, and had fed those to this unfortunate person, could she have been so spot-on accurate? Unless she had been spying on Caldwell for years, it did not seem possible.

But she sometimes _did_ spy on her victims for ages. Wasn't that what they had been told?

"Major."

The voice broke into his thoughts, but he ignored it.

"Major Reynolds!"

He started, finally focusing. Caldwell—or whoever he was—was coming towards him, his expression the picture of confusion. "Major, what's the matter with you? You've been doing nothing but staring at me for five minutes!"

Jerry swallowed hard. "I . . . I'm sorry, Mike," he said. "I just remembered something I have to do. Excuse me." He hurried past and out the door, to where Perry, McVey, and Della and Paul were all gathered in Della's office.

"Jerry!" Perry exclaimed in surprise. "What's wrong?"

Jerry barely even heard. "I need to go out for a while, Perry," he said, his thoughts far away. "I have to think about whether or not I've been a ridiculous fool."

He was already into the reception room and going into the hall when Caldwell came to the doorway of Della's office and called to him, in vain. "Major Reynolds!"

Perry frowned, turning to look at the perplexed man. "What was it you said to him?" he demanded. His tone and face openly displayed his bewilderment and anger.

"I was just telling him about Elaine Darrow, as he asked me to!" Caldwell shot back. "I said that she wasn't Portman's assistant; she was an experiment and had been made to think she was an assistant!"

Paul stared. _"What?"_

Perry was also stunned. "An experiment," he breathed.

Della was in open-mouthed shock. Sweet, unsuspecting Elaine had been used in such a way? Was it really true? _Could_ it be?

McVey started to attention. "You know this for a fact?"

"Yes!" Caldwell said in impatience.

Perry frowned, looking from him to the now-empty hallway. "Then I think I know why Jerry has left so suddenly."

Della blinked in surprise. Paul's mouth dropped open. "Perry, you're not saying that . . ."

Perry shot a glance at Mike. "I don't know what I'm saying at this point, Paul," he replied.

"Well, I do." Caldwell walked over to him, his eyes narrowed. "You're saying you think I was made to think I'm Michael Caldwell. Am I right?"

Perry sighed. "At this point it sounds more believable than the alternative. Surely you have to admit that, Captain."

"But you'll have proof before long," Caldwell exclaimed. "Major Reynolds could have waited for that!"

"I guess he was too rattled," Paul said.

"He shouldn't go far," Perry said. "There's no telling what that Portman woman might have in store for him." He headed for the door. "Come on, Paul. We have to get to him before he's out of the building."

Paul followed him out. Mike moved to accompany them but was stopped by McVey.

"Maybe you'd better stay here," McVey frowned. "I want to know the answer to Mr. Mason's query myself."

"And until you have it, you don't want me roaming the streets. Is that it, Captain?" Caldwell's retort was cool, almost biting. But McVey didn't bat an eye.

"That about sums it up," he said.

Mike turned away, pacing the floor. "I can't blame you," he said. "But if anything happens to Jerry out there, you might need the information I have to find him."

McVey whirled to face him. "Do you think something _will_ happen to him?"

"I don't know, Captain," Mike said. "All I know is that Dr. Portman's plot was as much about Major Reynolds as it was about me. She was testing his resilience and his reactions to everything I was doing. And I have the feeling she's probably fascinated all the more by now."

"Tell me this," McVey came back. "Was anyone else watching Major Reynolds besides you?"

"It's possible," Caldwell said. "I wouldn't put it past Dr. Portman to have had us both followed."

McVey set his jaw. "We'll wait for now. But if Mr. Mason and Mr. Drake can't find him, I _will_ want that information from you. In fact, you should give it to me anyway. The taskforce looking for Dr. Portman's hideout will want it."

Mike gave him an even, unintelligible look. "Alright then," he said. "But it will require a level of trust on your part. You won't know if I'm giving the wrong directions."

"No, I won't," said McVey. "But I'll have to take the chance."

Mike searched his eyes and at last nodded. "Good choice, Captain."

xxxx

Hamilton leaned back in his office chair with a sigh, massaging his forehead. With Howie's help he had finished getting the room back in order—only to discover that nothing seemed to be missing. And nothing was there that did not belong, either, save for that nameplate. And if Perry was right, it had been deliberately planted.

Hamilton did not know what to think. It seemed a great deal of trouble for someone to go to in order to incriminate Captain Caldwell, deceased. Or someone pretending to be him.

"Are you okay, Mr. Burger?"

He looked up at Howie's voice. The kid was over by the desk now, watching him. Hamilton nodded, tired.

"Yes," he said. "I'm just trying to figure out what happened here and why." He glanced at the clock and started to rise. "But say, I need to get you home. Your parents will have a fit if you're gone any longer."

Howie sighed in resignation. "Okay."

Hamilton stood, gathering his hat and coat. "Tell me something, Howie," he said as they walked to the door. "Have you been getting enough sleep lately?"

Howie started. "Huh? Oh . . . sure, Mr. Burger."

"Every night?"

Now Howie averted his eyes, guilty. "Well . . . sometimes when I have the nightmares, I don't go back to sleep," he confessed. "I stay up all night."

Hamilton sighed. "I was afraid of that," he said. "Howie, how do you even manage to go to school like that?"

"I eat candy bars and stuff. Just a couple," Howie quickly added. "But I get tired anyway." As if on cue, he yawned. "I've never fallen asleep in class, though," he said through it.

"That's something, I guess," Hamilton said. They reached the elevator and he pressed the button. "Do your parents know?"

"Nope. But they probably will soon." Howie frowned at the floor.

"Why's that?"

"'Cause some of my teachers see that I'm tired and ask stuff." Howie was still not meeting Hamilton's gaze. He shuffled into the elevator when it opened.

Hamilton followed him in and hit the ground floor button. "Well, Howie, I've been meaning to have a talk with your parents myself," he said. "I'm worried about you. It's not good to not have enough sleep, especially at your age."

Howie jerked up. "But it's only when I have the creepy dreams!" he protested. "You said you have them too."

"I do, sometimes," Hamilton admitted. "That's not the point, though."

"Do you go back to sleep when you have them?"

Hamilton had not expected the pointed question. But Howie threw him off-track often enough that he should have expected something like that. Sometimes he really wondered why the Petersons had wanted him to be Howie's godfather. He had never had much experience with kids, even Mignon's son Larry. When Larry had been a kid Hamilton had not been around as much, busy with his growing responsibilities at the time. Maybe that was why Mignon had not asked him to be Larry's godfather—she had not wanted to add something else for him to figure out how to handle at that point.

He snapped back to the present. Howie had tilted his head and was staring at him with his arms akimbo, waiting for an answer. And such a determined stance was impossible to ignore.

"No," Hamilton relented. "I don't always." He racked his mind for the right follow-up to that. "But it doesn't mean I'm doing what I should."

Howie sighed, his arms dropping to his sides. "Okay," he mumbled.

"It won't be as bad as all that," Hamilton tried to reassure him. "Your parents just want the best for you, like I do."

"Yeah, but I don't want them to know I'm not always doing okay." Howie got out of the elevator when it opened. "I've told them I'm fine. Now they'll know I was lying!"

Hamilton hurried after him. "But they'll also know _why_ you were lying," he said. "You were just trying to be brave, weren't you?" Howie nodded forlornly. "Then it's not like you just didn't want to get in trouble."

Howie looked to him. "Well . . . I guess that was some of it too, probably," he said, mumbling again.

Hamilton gently chuckled. "It'll be alright, Howie. You'll see."

They both stopped short in amazement when they stepped outside. Perry had just pulled up to the curb in his car and he and Paul were hurrying over, worry in their eyes.

"Hamilton!" Perry called.

"Perry, Paul, what's going on?" Hamilton demanded. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Yes, we do. Hello, Howie." Perry glanced at the boy for a brief moment, then back to Hamilton. "Time is a large part of the problem, Hamilton."

"The last time I heard from you, you were going to try catching Jerry's stalker," Hamilton said. "Did you have any luck?"

"Yes," Perry said. "Only now I'm afraid the problem has become even stickier."

Paul nodded in agreement. "Captain McVey just called us. Lieutenant Philips confirmed that the fingerprints of Jerry's stalker match the fingerprints of Captain Caldwell. Some DNA samples are being tested too, but they're not back yet."

Hamilton gaped. "Are you trying to tell me that the man you corralled really _is_ someone who's supposed to be dead?"

Howie's eyes went wide. "Is it a zombie?" he said in horror.

Perry smiled now. "No, Howie," he reassured. "The man isn't a zombie. He's very much alive. Although we don't fully understand how."

"The problem is, Jerry went wandering off some time ago," Paul said. "Somehow he made it out of the Brent building before we could catch him and we haven't been able to find him since. McVey also said that he's taking Caldwell and they're going out looking."

Hamilton frowned. "Well, do you think something's happened to him?"

"We don't know," Paul said.

"We wondered if you'd seen him, Hamilton," Perry said.

"No, I haven't, but I'll look for him while I'm taking Howie home," Hamilton said.

"I'll look too!" Howie declared.

Perry smiled. "Why, thank you. We can certainly use both of your help."

"We're happy to do whatever we can," Hamilton said.

xxxx

The voice was both cruel and eerie, reverberating as though inside an echo chamber.

"_Now, don't worry, this won't hurt a bit. Why, maybe it will even help release the tension and confusion you're feeling now. You'd appreciate that, wouldn't you?"_

The scream of pain was so chillingly pronounced that Mignon sat straight up in bed, her long hair falling around her. Slowly she threw back the covers and got up, crossing to the window. Her dream had felt so real. Too real.

"A premonition," she whispered aloud to the empty and silent room. "But of what? And for whom?"

It was not for her, she felt that much. But she was involved somehow, someway. And perhaps that, coupled with that horrifying cry, was what unsettled her the most.

She pulled her silk robe closer against her in the January chill.


	10. Truck

**Chapter Ten**

The night passed and gave way to morning without progress. Jerry was still missing. Perry, Paul, and Della were continuing to search, their panic increasing the more time ticked by. And when Captain McVey called the taskforce assigned to bring in Dr. Portman and they followed up on the location Captain Caldwell had given them, it was empty. That did not help Caldwell's situation in the least.

"You admitted yourself that you might give the wrong location," McVey said, glaring with clearly visible suspicion at the other man as he sat in a chair back in Perry's office. "Did you?"

"No, I did not," retorted Caldwell. "When I said that might happen, I mostly meant because of the chip. But it hasn't tried to take over my mind since last night. If it had, you'd know it."

"Caldwell, or whoever you are, I trusted you and your information fell through," McVey said. In desperation he walked around to the front of the chair. "You know how this looks. Do you have any idea why Portman wasn't there?"

"She must have known I told you," Caldwell replied. "Or at least suspected it."

"And she managed to clear everything out in the time it took the taskforce to get to Los Angeles and follow your directions," McVey said.

"She's remarkably fast," Caldwell said. "And what I gave you was the last place I knew she was located. She didn't have all of her equipment there."

"Well, you must know where she's been keeping all of her equipment," McVey retorted. "What she and her neurosurgeon supposedly did for you and _to_ you . . ."

Caldwell looked away. "She has more than one place. She bragged about them more than once. But the one I was kept at was in the mountains above Los Angeles. She has a secret underground bunker there."

"And if she knows you've just told me this, she couldn't possibly get everything out of there in time, could she?" McVey asked, weary.

"No, Captain," was the response. "But she could get herself out. And probably would. She knows the military is after her. She won't hold still to be caught."

McVey sighed. "Unfortunately, we've been discovering that all too well." He gave Caldwell a hard look. "Could you give us detailed information on that bunker's location?"

Caldwell frowned. "Portman didn't want her experiments to know the exact location," he said. "I tried to memorize as much about the area as I could. I might be able to find my way back, but I can't guarantee it. I never returned after I left."

"What about in between your 'haunting' of Major Reynolds at Vandenberg?" McVey asked. "Once you started, did you just stay in that area until he came here and you followed?"

"That's right. I had a motel room." Caldwell watched as McVey pulled out his phone, preparing to dial a number. "Who are you calling?"

McVey glanced up. "Last night, after we had you in custody, I ordered your grave to be exhumed this morning." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he cringed. That sounded so wrong. "I haven't heard back from Lieutenant Philips since it was supposed to happen."

The phone rang before he had the chance to tap out the number. Caldwell raised an eyebrow. "Speak of the Devil," he remarked. Lieutenant Philips' name was displayed across the screen.

McVey was surprised too. He brought the phone up to his ear. "McVey," he greeted. "Lieutenant Philips, what's going on down there?"

The crashes and screams were loud enough that Caldwell could hear them through the phone. He leaned forward in the chair, his eyes filled with shock.

"Captain!" Philips cried. "Major Reynolds is here."

"What's he doing _there?_" McVey demanded.

"Well . . . right now he just punched one of the workers into the open grave. Before that he attacked two men with a shovel.

"He was here when the crew came to exhume the body, but he was calm then. Almost eerily so, to be honest. He was standing and staring at the headstone. Didn't say anything. But he moved when we asked him to."

Philips' voice was strained. If it were not for all the noise in the background, what he was saying would be almost impossible for McVey to believe. As it was, he could scarcely conceive of it.

Caldwell, on the other hand, had gone sheet-white. McVey frowned, taking note. He knew, or at least had an idea, of what was wrong.

"What set him off?" McVey queried next.

"It must have been when the casket was opened," Philips gasped. "The body . . . well, Captain, it wasn't Caldwell. It was damaged the same way, with the left side of the skull crushed, but it definitely wasn't him. Major Reynolds took one look and . . . well . . . he just went crazy!"

"Has he said anything?"

Jerry answered the question himself, by his wild cries in the background. "He says I didn't believe him. _He_ didn't believe _me,_ either! And he's been alive all this time, just waiting and watching from the shadows for the perfect chance to drive me out of my mind!"

"It sounds like you've succeeded in that," McVey snapped, looking to Caldwell. "Major Reynolds is a good man, one of the best in the missile division. But now he's completely deranged!"

Caldwell jumped up, grabbing the phone from McVey's hand. "He's _not_ deranged," he snapped. "Dr. Portman must have got hold of him last night. Now she's either given him a chip or one of her serums!" Before McVey could answer, Caldwell barked into the phone. "Lieutenant Philips, see if you and your men can subdue Major Reynolds without hurting him. That's very important. He's not under his own power. He can't be held responsible for what he's doing!"

"That may be so, Sir, but I'm not sure we can subdue him!" Philips exclaimed. "At least not for a while. He's taking off in one of the men's trucks!"

"Well, get after him, Lieutenant! He's not in any condition to be driving!" Caldwell paid little attention to McVey as the stunned man reached for his phone. Caldwell jerked away, not ready to relinquish it.

"I agree, Sir," Philips said. "But what about Captain McVey? What does he think? I'm only supposed to take orders from him!"

"It doesn't matter what he thinks," Caldwell said. "He doesn't know what's going on. _I_ do! Is that clear, Lieutenant?"

"Y-Yes, Sir. Very clear!" Another crash had Philips running over the grass. "Oh no! Major Reynolds!" The call disconnected.

Caldwell jerked the phone away and shoved it at McVey. "We're going out there _now,_" he declared.

McVey shoved the device into his pocket before he gave chase. "What were you talking about?" he cried. "Portman doing something to Major Reynolds? Why?"

"To pit him against me, to see if he can fight it the same as I did . . . there's a whole score of possible reasons, Captain." Caldwell marched in determination out the door and down the hall. "We're dealing with a sick mind. I warned you she might take him."

"Yes, but I never thought something like _this_ would happen!"

"Well, _start_ thinking it, McVey!" Caldwell snapped. "It's happening!"

McVey paused just briefly and then resumed the chase. He had never met Captain Caldwell in life, not before the previous day. He was a strange enigma, a mix of so many emotions and faces. He had been filled with murderous rage under the control of the chip. Then he had been shaking and in despair after Jerry had broken through to his true self. Since going back to Perry Mason's office with them, he had been increasingly cold, stubborn, and grouchy. Not that he didn't have plenty of reason to be.

Which was the closest to the real man? Or were they all equally him?

It did not matter all that much, McVey supposed, just as long as he was truly on their side. And that was something McVey could not answer.

xxxx

Perry was at his wit's end. Exhausted and discouraged, he drove aimlessly around the streets of Los Angeles—streets that they had already checked countless times during the night but that he was still checking now, out of some vain hope. At his side, Della gave him a worried look.

"Oh, Perry. There's nothing more we can do right now. You're in no condition to keep looking." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Go home and go to bed. Paul's men will keep up the search."

"I know, Della. But I hate to give it up myself." Perry frowned. "Jerry _couldn't_ be far, but Los Angeles is so big. He could easily get lost in it, if he didn't want to be found."

A car with the right-of-way drove past, honking at Perry when he did not yield. Quickly Perry pulled over to the curb.

"You're right, Della," he said, leaning on the steering wheel. "I should just go home. I won't help anyone by getting us into an accident."

Della's eyes were wide from their narrow escape. But at Perry's concession she smiled in relief. "Good. Now just move over. I'll drive." She got out of the car and walked around to the driver's side.

Perry had agreeably moved to the passenger side. As Della re-entered the vehicle and began to pull away from the curb, his phone rang. He took it out, studying the screen in surprise. "It's Captain McVey," he announced.

Della glanced over. "Maybe they've found Jerry," she said, hopeful.

Perry nodded. "We'll soon find out." He brought the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Mr. Mason, I've got good news and bad news," McVey greeted. He sounded strained. "We know the area where Major Reynolds was a few minutes ago."

"Where?" Perry barked. "And what's wrong, Captain? Is he hurt?"

"Well . . . he acts like he's gone mad, Mr. Mason. He's at the cemetery where Caldwell's grave is. I ordered the body exhumed, and when he saw it he completely lost control. He's been attacking people and now has run off with a truck. That's why I said we know the _area._ He might be driving out of it by now."

Perry's face darkened. "Captain, Major Reynolds is one of the most levelheaded men I know. He wouldn't simply 'lose control' for no reason. And I can't believe that even the stress he's been under lately would be enough to make him have a complete breakdown."

Even as he spoke, the worry grew in his heart. Was he wrong? Could Jerry have completely lost all sense of sanity? Maybe Perry had underestimated just how distraught he had been.

"Caldwell agrees with you," McVey said. "He insists that Portman must have taken Jerry last night and done something to him. We're trying to get to the cemetery now. I've already alerted the police about the vehicle."

"Which cemetery is it?" Perry demanded. "Was Caldwell buried in Los Angeles?"

"Yes, he was; he had family here and they owned some plots." McVey gave him the name and address.

"Alright," Perry answered. "We'll be right there."

"Oh, Mr. Mason, one other thing." The final news that McVey delivered stunned Perry beyond belief. He slumped back, slowly pulling the phone back from his ear.

"I see. Thank you, Captain." He hung up in shock.

Della glanced to him. "Perry, what on Earth . . ."

"Della, something's wrong with Jerry," Perry told her. He quickly informed her of the rest of his conversation with Captain McVey. Della gripped the steering wheel, horrified.

"Oh no," she gasped. "I can hardly believe it. Not Jerry."

"Nor can I." Perry frowned deeply. "According to McVey, Jerry lost control when they exhumed the body and he saw it wasn't Captain Caldwell."

"Then the man following Jerry actually is Caldwell," Della breathed.

"It's certainly pointing more and more to that," Perry said. "It still seems so impossible, Della." He stared out at the palm trees lining either side of the street. "I think about it and I wonder how it could actually be true—two mad scientists discovering how to restore the damaged part of the brain without any apparent ill effects at all. Then I wonder why the only people to uncover such a thing are those who are using it for evil, when there are so many who would want it for good."

"It's a tragedy," Della said. "But Perry, you surprise me. You sound almost as skeptical as Mr. Burger." She smiled slightly, nodding to herself. "After I saw the Captain last night, somehow I had the feeling that he was who he said he was, as impossible as it sounded. I don't know; he just felt _real_ to me, as he did when I met him coming out of that cab."

"Maybe Hamilton's skepticism has been rubbing off on me," Perry said. "Or maybe it's the lingering effects from what Vivalene did to us. I was certainly among the most unwilling to listen, while you were much more open-minded."

"I suppose," Della said. "Or maybe, Perry, you're just worried about Jerry and don't want him to be hurt by a fraud. And you don't want to believe it's real too soon, in case it isn't and you would only encourage Jerry more."

"Maybe," Perry conceded. "You know, he never talked much about Caldwell. I knew about him from things Jerry did say, off and on, but I didn't know about their falling out until Caldwell was dead. I had the feeling that the whole experience shook Jerry up more than he would admit. Of course it would be shocking to be accused of the man's murder in any case, but I mean more because they had been friends. Jerry seemed numb about it at the time." He sighed. "When he came to Los Angeles and called me about his stalker, he sounded more unsettled than I'd ever heard him. And I suppose right away that set me on edge."

"Of course," Della nodded.

"And now we have to hurry to find Jerry as fast as humanly possible," Perry said. "I want us to find him before someone else does, much as he wanted with Caldwell last night."

Della glanced at the clock as she pursued the path to the cemetery. They might not have the time they needed; by now someone else could have already encountered Jerry. But as to whether Jerry would have been subdued or escaped again, she did not have the faintest idea.

She was not sure she wanted to think about it, either.

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg was stunned, to say the least, when he received the report of Major Jerry Reynolds running off with a truck from the Forest Lawn cemetery in Glendale. Being somewhat near the area at the time, he had elected to look for Perry's friend himself.

He was troubled as he drove. Captain McVey of the Air Police had delivered the message, and within it he had mentioned that Jerry was most likely under the influence of a controlling drug, or even one of Dr. Portman's chips. Tragg knew all too well what that was like. And, perhaps due to his own experiences, he wanted to be the one to find Jerry.

But even if he did, what then? It was not likely that Jerry would stop, not if he was as bent on whatever it was the drug wanted him to do as Tragg had been to follow Vivalene's orders.

The light-blue truck screeching around the corner matched the given description. And as it drew closer the driver matched as well. Tragg's heart skipped a beat. He switched on the lights and the siren as he gave chase. He cut across the road, blocking the truck from passing unless it swerved, and stepped outside.

"Major Jerry Reynolds!" he yelled, using the radio and the bullhorn on the roof as a loudspeaker. "This is the police. Stop and get out of your car."

Jerry only slowed a fraction. "I'm not stopping, Officer," he called as he approached.

Tragg gripped the radio, his hand faintly trembling. The wild look in Jerry's eyes. . . . Had he, Tragg, looked like that when he had grabbed the steering wheel away from Lieutenant Drumm? When he had pushed Hamilton and left him to Vivalene's mercy?

At last he dared to speak again. "Jerry, I know you must feel as though everything is spiraling out of control, that you're watching yourself from a distance and can't stop what you're doing, but you have to try! You have to fight, man! You're going to regret it if you don't."

"I'm not watching from a distance," Jerry returned. "I'm in the here and now. And I've had enough of being haunted and tormented by Captain Caldwell. He's the one who decided to end our friendship years ago. He's the one who's held a grudge since then. He was probably all for Portman's scheme because he wanted to get back at me!"

"Now that's not true!" Tragg's mind was racing. There were no other vehicles here at the moment, but that situation was not likely to last long. He had to get Jerry to stop, before there was an accident. Or before he ran off to find Captain Caldwell.

"You don't know it isn't," Jerry said.

"You don't know it _is!_" Amid Tragg's desperation he became aware that Jerry was speeding up. Quick as a flash, he swerved around the police car in the road and kept on down the street.

Tragg leaped back in his car, taking off after Jerry with sirens blaring. Flipping the switch on the radio he spoke into it again, this time using it to alert the other police units.

"I'm in pursuit of the light-blue pick-up truck driven by Major Jerry Reynolds," he said after identifying himself. "Major Reynolds refuses to stop. He is under the influence of either a drug or another intruder in his system, likely by no choice of his own. Proceed with caution. Don't harm him unless there's no other choice!"

They were coming into a heavy stream of traffic now. Jerry sped ahead and tore around a corner. Frowning, Tragg continued the pursuit. He could not lose that truck. Not now, not ever. Too much could happen in the space of a split-second. Too many things for Jerry to regret. For Tragg to regret.

A frown crossed his features. Did he think that somehow, by getting Jerry to halt and listen to him, he would redeem himself for the past? Jerry was not listening any better than Tragg had when he had been under a different form of mind-control. Maybe there wasn't any way for outside forces to stop those being controlled.

But no—Tragg had been told by Perry that Jerry had managed to bring his stalker to his senses. It had been during the direst of circumstances, and Jerry had almost been killed before it had worked, but it _had_ worked.

Just like how it had only worked for Tragg in the most crucial situation. The problem was, it had come too late. It had been Paul's angry, horrified, and grief-stricken words that had snapped him to his senses after Hamilton had been left for dead by Vivalene.

He could not bear to think of anyone else suffering that fate. If Jerry met up with Caldwell in his crazed state and the encounter did not have a benevolent ending, he would likely never forgive himself. He might well be thrown into the same sort of shaken quandary that Tragg was already in. Depending on what happened, it might even be worse.

And if there was possibly something, anything Tragg could do about it, he had to find it and do it.

He pushed harder on the accelerator and kept going, sirens blaring.

Jerry continued to stay out of his reach.

xxxx

Jerry could hear the police car somewhere behind him. It would be impossible to not, with all the noise it was making. But he was too focused on what he was trying to do and where he was trying to go to even care.

At least, he _thought_ he was focused. When he thought about it, what . . . what was it he was trying to do? Where was he trying to go?

His heart raced. Everything in his mind was one big jumble. Perry, Della . . . Mr. Drake, Mr. Burger . . . that police lieutenant . . .

_Caldwell._

Yes, it was because of Caldwell that he was in such turmoil. Their friendship had been on the rocks since the Bosnian War and he was sick of being the one to get all the blame. Caldwell was no longer a friend; he had made it very clear that he was an enemy.

Jerry had been taught to vanquish the enemy. That was what he was going to do now.

He took no notice or caring of the vehicle approaching his position from the side. They had the right-of-way, but he had every intention of still going.

Only it didn't work that way.

xxxx

Hamilton was on his way to work and just coming to the intersection when he saw it. The light-blue truck, probably the one the police and the military were after, smashed into another car from the side as it emerged from a side-street. There was no time to stop, no time to process what was happening until it had already happened. Then there was smoke, broken metal and glass, and the screeching of brakes all around the area.

Hamilton pulled over to the curb and parked before hurrying to the scene. "Stay back!" he ordered the already-gathering crowd. "Someone call 911!"

The driver of the truck—Jerry—was stumbling out, dazed but seemingly not hurt. The driver of the other car was slumped over the wheel, unconscious or worse. His passenger tried to wake him until he noticed their visitor. He got out as well, meeting Jerry head-on. Jerry stopped and stumbled back farther, his eyes glazed but filled with recognition.

"Mike," he whispered.


	11. Paul

**Chapter Eleven**

Tragg pulled up moments later. His car's lights still flashing, he jumped out and rushed to the standoff on the sidewalk. "Jerry!" he called. "Jerry, don't do this!"

But Jerry seemed to be beyond hearing. He continued to stare at the other man, his former friend and current enemy, Michael Caldwell. Mike in turn stared back, the conflict and worry awash in his eyes.

Hamilton was over by the car, opening the driver's door to examine Captain McVey. "Tragg, you can't talk him out of whatever it is he's trying to do," he exclaimed. "Grab him, restrain him! That's the only thing that will work right now."

"No!" Tragg retorted, harshly. "He has to listen to reason!"

"He crashed his car into this one without any consideration for the occupants!" Hamilton shot back. "He could have killed this man!" As it was, McVey was alive, but Hamilton was not sure of much more than that. "And Captain Caldwell—or whoever he is—has already been trying to get through to him. Just like everyone at the cemetery he trashed! He isn't listening! If he's under some sort of control, he probably _can't_ listen!"

Tragg was not listening either. He approached slowly, cautiously. "Jerry, please," he begged, the anguish of the past several weeks coming out in his voice. "You're not a murderer. For the love of Heaven, leave that man alone, no matter what he did to you in the past! It's not worth whatever you could do to him!"

Jerry spun at the last moment. His eyes still wild, he shoved the older man hard against the nearby telephone pole. The crowd gasped. Hamilton took a step forward, but Caldwell beat him to it. He seized Jerry from behind, pulling him back. Jerry yelled, fighting madly against him.

Hamilton glanced at McVey. He was stirring now, groaning under his breath. And the ambulance sirens in the distance signaled that help was on the way. It did not take much more of a mental debate for Hamilton to run around the car and over to Tragg, who was dazedly getting to his feet. Hamilton reached out, taking hold of Tragg's arm.

"I know why you're doing this," he said quietly. "But trying to stop Major Reynolds won't change the past, even if you manage to get him to listen. Tragg . . ." He looked sincerely into his friend's eyes. "I don't want to see you get hurt or worse over this."

"I'm an officer of the law," Tragg shot back, trying to pull away. "I have to stop Major Reynolds. It's my duty!"

"Yes, but that isn't why you're doing it," Hamilton said. "I'm _worried_ about you! You're charging in without thinking it through! Don't you understand?"

Whether Tragg did or not, he had no chance to say. Jerry and Mike were engaged in an all-out war now, fighting, struggling, and pushing. When Mike took a swing at Jerry, Jerry retaliated with a vicious chop. When they grappled like out-of-control wrestlers, they seemed evenly matched despite Caldwell's broader build. At last Jerry, fueled by either his rage and confusion or whatever was possibly controlling him, shoved the other man into a plate-glass window. Caldwell fell through as it shattered, sending sharp particles in every direction.

Jerry stood over the scene, breathing heavily. "I killed him," he said. His eyes flickered with a crazed and unsettled spark. _"I killed him!"_ He turned and fled between the buildings.

Tragg gave chase, firing his gun into the air. "Stop!" he yelled.

Hamilton, stunned and overwhelmed by all that was happening, approached the window. "Are you alright?" he asked Caldwell in concern. Caldwell was lying on the floor, surrounded by broken glass but very much alive.

He sat up, trying to shake the cobwebs from his mind. "Fine," he grunted. "You know, out of everything that's happened and that I thought would happen, I didn't think I'd end up seeing what it's like to be the one hunted instead of the one doing the hunting." He brushed the glass particles off his uniform. "What happened to Captain McVey? Is he . . ."

Hamilton glanced back. "He's going to be alright," he said, observing the paramedics as they examined and spoke with a now-conscious McVey.

"And Jerry?" Caldwell got up, letting the remaining glass pieces fall to the floor. He stepped over them and through the hole in the wall.

"Jerry . . ." Hamilton sighed. "I don't know. He went running down the alley screaming he'd killed you. Lieutenant Tragg went after him."

"If he was in his right mind he'd know he couldn't kill me just from this," Caldwell retorted.

Hamilton peered at him. "Are you _sure_ he's under the influence of something this Dr. Portman invented?" he queried. "Maybe he's just lost his mind after everything she—and you—have put him through."

"Not Major Reynolds," Caldwell returned. "Not this fast. Anyway, it would be just like Portman to see what would happen if the shoe were on the other foot. Her drugs and chips magnify a person's worst feelings and twist them into behavior that would never happen if the person had control."

"You mean it takes away their inhibitors," Hamilton frowned.

"Exactly." Caldwell glanced at Captain McVey and back at Hamilton. "It isn't like being hypnotized. In this case you _can_ be made to do things you wouldn't ordinarily do."

Hamilton crossed his arms. "Jerry didn't kill you," he pointed out. "If he meant to, he didn't try too hard. And you didn't kill him, either. Last night, I mean."

"I was going to," was the grim retort. "I picked up a rock in my blind rage and I was going to heave it right at his head. I would have, if he hadn't brought me back to my senses."

"Maybe," Hamilton said. "I guess I'm not much of a judge of that."

He looked up as a black convertible pulled over to the curb. Perry and Della got out, surveying the accident site in stunned shock and concern. "What happened?" Perry demanded.

Hamilton sighed. "Hello, Perry, Della. Major Reynolds rammed his car into Captain McVey's. He pushed Tragg, fought with this man, and took off down the street."

Della stared. "Is Captain McVey hurt bad?"

"No." McVey himself spoke as he came over to them. He had a bandage on his forehead but otherwise seemed fine. "I'm just lucky. So is Caldwell." He nodded to the other captain.

"And now Jerry is who knows where," Perry frowned.

"Perry, something is definitely wrong with him," Hamilton said. "Captain Caldwell thinks he's under Portman's control, as I suppose you already know. Tragg thinks it too. I don't know what to believe."

"I don't either," Perry admitted, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. "But it is hard to imagine Jerry losing such complete control over himself." He sighed, shaking his head. "He could be having a nervous breakdown, it's true. Yet considering that we're dealing with an apparent mad scientist who has been experimenting on manipulating people, it's also possible that Jerry is dealing with something just like Caldwell here has said."

"Perry, you only have his word and Elaine Darrow's when it comes to Portman trying to mind-control people," Hamilton said. "And you only have his about Elaine Darrow really being an experiment instead of an assistant. Frankly, I don't know who's telling the truth around here!"

"And there's no way you _can_ know without finding Portman," Caldwell growled as he came over to them. "You're just going to have to pick someone to believe."

"Alright, Caldwell." It was McVey who had spoken. "You said you'd try to take us to the underground bunker. Right now we don't have anything to lose. Let's go."

"Wait," Perry said, holding up a hand. "Here comes Tragg."

And indeed Tragg was coming—alone, weary, and dejected. "I lost him," he grumbled in frustration. "He's gone who knows where now. I'll have to put out a bulletin."

"He might be going back to Portman," Caldwell said. "And she might take him back to the bunker after she has him again. And either way, Captain, you might find something there of interest."

"That's what I'm hoping for," McVey nodded.

Hamilton followed Tragg to the squad car. "Tragg, I'm sorry," he said. "I know you wanted to bring Major Reynolds back to earth yourself."

Tragg waved him off. "Oh, nevermind. You were probably right anyway. About why I was so desperate to make him listen, that is. But that doesn't mean that this wouldn't be aggravating in any case. I've always hated losing someone I was after. It might not have happened if he hadn't got such a good head-start." He opened the door and reached for the radio.

"Tragg, can't you see that you were in the exact same boat as Major Reynolds?" Hamilton exclaimed.

Tragg shot upright. "What kind of a gag question is that?" he demanded.

"It's not a gag," Hamilton retorted. "Tragg, I know why you've been avoiding me for the past month. Anyone could see it. But what I'm saying is that you have to stop beating yourself up over it! You've shown Major Reynolds a lot of compassion in his situation. Save a little of it for yourself. Your situation wasn't any different!"

Tragg glowered at him as he pressed the button on his radio. Maybe Hamilton was right; maybe he was wrong. Right now Tragg didn't have the time to think about it either way. The most important thing was finding Jerry—and stopping him before he did something he and everyone else would all regret.

"Hamilton."

Hamilton looked up with a start while Tragg spoke into the radio. To his surprise, Mignon had parked her car and was coming towards him. From her expression, she was clearly troubled.

"Hamilton, are you alright?"

He blinked. "Why, yes," he said. "I'm just fine. Mignon, what is it?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I barely slept last night, I've been so worried."

"Well, I didn't know anything happened last night to make you so worried," Hamilton exclaimed. "Nothing happened to me."

"Except for your office being ransacked," Mignon pointed out. "But I'm sure that isn't what caused my dream."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Your . . . dream?"

"Yes." Mignon frowned. "It was so vague and unclear. But I woke up with the sense that I was somehow involved or even partly responsible for what was happening in it."

"That's a new one," Hamilton remarked. "And you think _I_ was part of it? How could you tell, if it was so vague?"

A sigh. "I couldn't tell. And I'm not sure you were part of it, Hamilton. But I wondered." Mignon's gaze swept across the area, taking in the crash and the people. Her eyes flickered as she recognized the man who had been walking down her street the other night. "Is this . . ."

"Captain Caldwell, or so he says . . . sometimes," Hamilton dryly added.

Caldwell nodded to her. "Good morning, Ma'am."

"Good morning," Mignon returned with a quirked brow. "I'm guessing this is a long story, Hamilton? You didn't mention it when you dropped Howie off last night."

"Yes," Hamilton answered, the weariness evident in his voice. "It's a very long story." He glanced at Perry, who was calling Paul on the phone. "If you want to come along while we look for Major Reynolds, I'll tell you about it."

xxxx

Jerry staggered around a corner, gripping the bricks as his vision floated in and out of focus. He slumped harder against them, his heart pounding wildly in his ears.

"What's . . . what's happening to me?" he whispered to the unknown world around him. Was this how Mike had felt the first time he had gone under with Portman's control?

Was that what had happened? Everything was such a muddle that Jerry wasn't even sure what was real and what had only happened in his dreams. Being attacked late at night . . . the injection . . . fighting with Mike come morning. . . . It didn't feel real. It had to be a trick of his mind.

No . . . it wasn't. And why was he upset, anyway? Mike was not his friend. He knew that all too well. Mike himself had made it clear on many occasions that it was all over.

It _was_ Mike, wasn't it? Not another figment of his imagination? The body in the coffin wasn't him. What other explanation was there?

Maybe it _was_ all in his head. Was he even still in the Air Force? In society at all? What if he were really in a padded room somewhere and Portman was his doctor? And he had fabricated everything, including making Portman the villain of his little play?

No . . . now he was getting even more ridiculous. He knew it was real. His mind was just so muddied at the moment that nothing seemed right. Not even _he_ felt real. Whatever she had given him, it had been a doozy.

His legs felt like Jell-O. Now they were wobbling under him. He sank to the ground, still holding on to that blasted wall.

"Mike?" he moaned aloud in his delirium. "Perry?"

Someone was there; he could hear footsteps rapidly approaching. And then there was a voice, a familiar voice somehow, but he could not place it. "Hey! We've been looking all over for you, friend." Arms reached for him, trying to support him and pull him to his feet. He slumped against the other person, unable to make himself move. Strange, particularly since he had been so active not that long ago.

At last he managed to think clearly enough to form another word. "Who . . . ?"

"Don't you recognize me?" the voice exclaimed. "It's Paul. Paul Drake!"

Oh. Of course it was. But Jerry could not gather his thoughts enough to acknowledge it. And suddenly he crashed back to the ground with a gasp. Somewhere behind him, it sounded like a loud _thump_ and a groan.

"Mr. Drake?" he asked. "What's happening?" He tried to force his body to obey him and twist around, but it refused. All he could see from his position was a limp hand. Then, suddenly, something hard came down on his head and everything went black.

xxxx

The return to consciousness was slow. Paul hissed in pain; he was lying on a cold floor and his head was throbbing. With a shaking hand he reached up, touching the spot. It stung.

"Well, this is great, just great," he muttered weakly. "Jerry? Are you here?"

The moan that answered him was thready and agonized. In the dim light streaming into the room from the corridor beyond, Paul could just make out Jerry's form curled in a ball near the wall. That woke him up the rest of the way. Gasping in alarm, he struggled to get up and stumble over to the other man.

"Jerry!" he called, gripping the quaking shoulder. "Jerry, what is it? What's wrong?" Obviously it was more than what had happened to Paul. Jerry had been acting strange right before they had been attacked. From the looks of it he was still suffering from that malady, whatever it was.

"It's quite useless at the moment, Mr. Drake. Major Reynolds is unable to respond to you."

Paul looked up with a start. The voice was coming from the corridor. Through the small, barred window he could make out a shapely silhouette.

"Who are you?" he barked.

"You can't guess? Or deduce? And I was under the impression you were a good detective."

Paul's eyes narrowed. "You're Alice Portman, aren't you? I don't think I can even bring myself to call you 'Doctor.' You're nothing but a quack!"

"I should be offended, I suppose. But I've taken too many insults for years to be bothered by one now. Especially one coming from someone so unenlightened."

That got Paul to his feet. "You think what you've been doing to this guy is some big scientific feat!" he cried. Still a bit woozy from the blow to his head, he made his way to the window. "What did you do to him now?"

"I tried something different on him than I did Captain Caldwell," Portman answered. "I like to study a problem from all angles." He could not see her clearly, but it was easy enough to tell from her voice that she was examining the entire situation with an almost entirely computerized sense of mind. She cared nothing for humanity, other than how they served her purposes.

"Problem? You and that Caldwell have been driving poor Jerry out of his head!" Paul snapped. "Look, sister, if you think . . ."

"Captain Caldwell has been an unwilling participant this entire time," Portman interrupted. "It's fascinating, really. Despite his grudge against Major Reynolds that persisted for the last several years of his life, he had no desire to torture him as I wanted."

"Most people are decent," Paul spat. "So what are you saying? That he really _is_ Caldwell?"

Portman adjusted her glasses. "That, Mr. Drake, is something else you should have deduced." She peered into the room. "Major Reynolds' body is reacting very poorly to the drug I introduced."

"Well, what'd you expect it to do? Jump for joy?" Paul was growing angrier every time she opened her scientifically-wired mouth.

"Actually, things are going according to plan," Portman informed him. "Very much so." Her eyes gleamed. "His fight with Captain Caldwell this morning was of particular interest. It's a shame you didn't see it, Mr. Drake. He became so unbalanced that, for a while, he believed he had managed to kill Caldwell simply by pushing him through a window at ground level. Or was it that his subconscious did not want to seriously harm Caldwell and that was his way of rebelling?" She stared into space. "There are so many possibilities."

"You're sick!" Paul looked back to Jerry. He had not moved beyond another shudder or two. "What happens to him now?"

"That should be of extreme interest to you, Mr. Drake," Portman said. "You see, I never wanted Major Reynolds to actually hurt or kill Captain Caldwell. The captain is not expendable. My colleague and I worked too hard on him to have him destroyed."

"You talk like he's some kind of machine or animal," Paul said in appalled horror.

"He is an experiment," Portman said. "But such an experiment! We have cheated death! Can't you see the far-reaching consequences of our achievement?"

"Somehow I don't think God will be too happy at you horning in on His business." Paul's voice dripped with repulsed sarcasm.

"God? Ha! You disappoint me, Mr. Drake. Surely you could come up with a better argument than that." Portman was becoming more animated the longer she talked.

"Okay, nevermind," Paul shot back. "I should've known that wouldn't faze you. I can come up with a lot of arguments, but I'm not interested in the debate. What did you mean about me having an extreme interest in what happens to Jerry now?"

"Very simply this," Portman said. "I said the captain is not expendable. But you, Mr. Drake, are very much so."

"So you're going to see if Jerry will get up and kill me," Paul said in disgust. "Lady, you've got problems. And right now Jerry's not in a state to even lift a finger!"

"Major Reynolds has no idea how to handle or deal with this drug," Portman said. "It's very much like Captain Caldwell was when he had to get used to the chip. But when he fully understands that to accept it means the pain and confusion will stop, he will accept it."

"I thought guys in the military were trained how to resist drugs," Paul snapped. "You might be in for a long wait."

"Oh, I would be disappointed if I wasn't," Portman said. "But don't forget, Mr. Drake—Major Reynolds is not only a military man. He's a human being. And humans have weaknesses." She sneered at him. "While we're waiting, I'm sure I can find something appropriate to do with you. Perhaps I'll try to break down your defenses concerning those friends of yours."

"And just what do you mean by that?"

Portman's answer was calculated and merciless. "That perhaps, when I'm done with you, you won't feel that you even have any friends."


	12. Bunker

**Notes: I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter. I haven't been feeling well the past week and it's made it difficult to write on some days. I did manage to get a new chapter up for the three-way crossover of **_**Perry**_**, **_**Kolchak: The Night Stalker**_**, and **_**The Monkees**_** TV show.**

**Chapter Twelve**

The bunker was empty.

It had been a long and torturous journey even getting into the canyon and finding the correct location. Caldwell had not been sure of anything. While one spot had looked right one moment, another had looked better the next. It had been nearing nightfall by the time they had located the entrance at last. And there was no life inside.

There were certainly all the indications of what had once happened in the underground halls. One room was what was left of a laboratory. Metal slabs with leather straps stood in the middle of the floor. Tables and counters, which had once likely held various instruments and chemical vials for experimentation, stretched from one side to the room to the other. Patches of dried blood were at various spots on the floor and even the walls. Captain McVey took it all in, horrified.

"And this is where you were for the last several years," he breathed.

"That's right," said Caldwell, his voice dark. "And it's probably a place like this where Jerry is right now."

McVey threw up his hands. "I thought . . . I _hoped_ it would be here," he said. "This was our last resource. I don't know where to look now." He glowered at Caldwell. "Unless you have any other ideas."

"I don't. I'm sorry." From Caldwell's expression and tone, he meant it.

"Maybe Mr. Mason has heard back from Mr. Drake by now," McVey said. "When we get back to where we can get a signal, I'll call him. Meanwhile . . ." He watched as the members of the anti-Portman taskforce spread out, examining the room more closely and taking pictures. "Unless there's some clue here as to where to check next, I don't know _what_ we're going to do."

"Captain, you can be sure of one fact." Caldwell's voice was still grim. "If you find any such clue, you can know that Portman _wants_ you to find her. And that's never a good thing."

"I don't have any doubt of that," McVey replied. "But if finding Major Reynolds requires us to go into one of Portman's traps, we'll just have to."

Caldwell nodded. "My question is, if Portman's got Jerry with her, and she wants us to come, what kind of condition will he be in by the time we find him?"

McVey looked away, not wanting to admit to the cold chill up his spine.

xxxx

Perry was practically climbing the walls. He had been pacing the floor of Hamilton's office for the last several minutes, while Hamilton and Della helplessly looked on.

He wished that he had been able to go along with the taskforce to the bunker. Captain McVey had been regrettable, but had not allowed it. It was Air Force business, for specially trained men. That, however, did not offer much consolation. Perry hated being forced to just sit and wait. And now there was something else to worry about, too.

At last Hamilton got to his feet. "Perry, for goodness sake, will you sit down?" he cried. "You're making me dizzy."

Perry stopped pacing but continued to stand where he was. "Paul hasn't called back," he said. "And when I tried to call him there wasn't any answer."

Della rose now. "Perry, do you think something's happened to Paul?" she gasped.

"I'm afraid something might have," Perry said. "The last time we couldn't get in touch with him was during the earthquake last month."

"But he wasn't hurt too badly then," Hamilton put in. "He might be fine now."

"He might be," Perry consented. "However, I have a feeling we haven't been putting enough stock in our nemesis. If Dr. Portman actually has taken Jerry, it's always possible that Paul has run afoul of her too."

"Surely she wouldn't start another experiment already," Hamilton objected.

"No, perhaps not." Perry paused. "Paul could simply be a prisoner. But either way, if he's with her he's in terrible danger."

Hamilton sighed. "Caldwell doesn't have any more ideas?"

"No." Perry placed his fist in his palm. "The bunker was his last. If it doesn't work . . ."

"Then we're all just flying blind." Hamilton looked to Della, who had been quiet but was deeply worried. She looked back to him, the agony clear in her eyes.

Perry was heading for the door. "We'll turn Los Angeles upsidedown if we have to," he vowed. "And we won't stop until we've found both Jerry and Paul."

Hamilton and Della hurried after him. "Perry, wait for us!" Della called. "Where are we going?"

"To the general area of the canyon!" Perry called back.

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg had arrived at the entrance to the canyon when the Air Force came trudging back. Before they even exited their vehicles he could tell the news was bad, from their collective grim faces.

"No luck, boys?" he greeted as he walked over.

Captain McVey gave a deep sigh. "Well, we have plenty more evidence against Portman," he said, nodding to the taskforce. "Some of the photographs and samples they've brought back would stand your hair on end. But the bunker was empty. Portman wasn't there, and certainly not Major Reynolds."

"Then . . . what are you going to do?" Tragg asked.

"I don't know." McVey wearily shook his head. "We need to find Mr. Mason. Some of what we turned up in there has to do with his former client Elaine Darrow. He'll want to know."

"_I_ want to know," Tragg countered. "Her death is still being investigated by the LAPD."

"Come with us then," McVey said. "We'll tell you and Mr. Mason at the same time. But first we have to get in touch with him." He took out his cellphone. "It looks like the signal will work from here." He walked away from the Jeep, dialing the number.

Tragg was left standing near the vehicle with Captain Caldwell, who looked grim. Tragg shifted position; this was awkward. He was not sure what to make of Caldwell. Oh, not that anyone else did, but in Tragg's case—being a fellow sufferer of mind-control—it was much more complicated.

"Are you concerned about Major Reynolds too?" he spoke at last.

Caldwell started and looked to him. "What do you think?" he answered, or rather, barked.

"Well, of course I suppose you wouldn't want any drastic harm to come to him, if you're a decent sort of fellow," Tragg amended. "What I mean is, I thought the two of you had some problems that have never been resolved."

"Oh, that." Caldwell shook his head. "It's funny. For years I thought all I wanted was to get back at him, to expose him for the liar I was convinced he was. Even after I was brought back to life, I wanted that.

"But right now, after everything that's happened over the last couple of days, none of that seems important anymore." Caldwell slumped back in the seat, pushing his hat up with a finger. "We'll probably never know what really happened that night in Bosnia. I know I didn't receive Major Reynolds' order. He's always maintained that he sent it, and . . . well, maybe I'm starting to believe that. There must have been some kind of equipment malfunction. Maybe the receiver was even jammed for a few minutes. But whatever the case, it's likely lost to history. And tonight, at this moment, I don't even care."

Tragg nodded slowly. "That's big of you," he commented.

"I wouldn't say that," Caldwell countered. "I'm just fed up."

"Some people never do get 'fed up'," Tragg said. "They just keep on with their ideas of revenge no matter who gets hurt. I see it all the time in my line of work."

"And how often do you see someone like me in your line of work?" Caldwell retorted. "A man supposed to be dead, brought back to life by a mad scientist's experiments?" He gestured wildly at himself. "I'm a modern-day Frankenstein's monster!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Tragg said, echoing Caldwell's own words. He leaned on the hood of the Jeep. "For one thing, you're not a monster. You may have been revived for an evil purpose, but you have no desire to fulfill it."

"And what about you, Lieutenant?" Caldwell peered at him in the dim light. "Do you have any idea what it's like to try to fight that 'evil purpose'? To be used for somebody else's whims?"

Tragg immediately sobered. "Yeah," he said as he pushed away from the Jeep. "Yeah, I do."

Caldwell leaned forward. "Surely you don't mean literally!"

But Tragg nodded. "It was." He stared off into the distance. "It wasn't Portman, though."

Slowly Caldwell climbed out of the Jeep. "What was it?"

"I'm not even sure." Tragg turned back to him. "But I don't think what it was is as important as what happened because of it. I almost killed two of my closest friends."

Now Caldwell was staring. ". . . But they didn't die," he said carefully.

"Not because of anything I did, that's for sure," Tragg grunted. "I was just about a goner. It was only when I saw one of them lying apparently dead, and someone else was yelling at me about it, that I snapped out of it."

He paused. "In some way, I suppose I envy you, Captain. You came back to yourself before you did anything to seriously injure Major Reynolds."

Caldwell was silent. He had not thought of it that way. "I never imagined that anyone would find a reason to envy me, especially under these circumstances." He looked to Tragg. "How long ago did this happen?"

"A little over a month," Tragg answered.

"You're still beating yourself up over it," Caldwell surmised. "I can tell." He walked over. "Let me give you some advice, Lieutenant. It's a horrible feeling to know that your body is out of control and that you're being forced to hurt people you'd never want to hurt if you were in your right mind.

"But it's far worse to hurt them on purpose. I waged a personal war against Major Reynolds that started during the Bosnian War. That was seventeen years ago! And I took it with me to my death. That's much too long to carry injured and vengeful feelings."

Tragg considered that. "You make a good point, Captain. But there's also something else concerning your situation that you should think about. Perhaps what Portman did to you wasn't entirely a curse. Even after everything you've done, now you have the chance to make amends." _If Jerry is still alive, of course,_ he silently added to himself.

"So do you, Lieutenant," Caldwell told him. "Don't squander it. After all, we never know how much time any of us have left."

He walked past, leaving Tragg standing alone with his thoughts.

xxxx

Paul's patience and temper were both growing short. Portman was still outside the cell, doing her best to get into Paul's mind. And what was eerie was that she was succeeding. At least somewhat.

"Now, Mr. Drake," she was saying, "through your and especially Mr. Mason's involvement with this experiment on Major Reynolds, I have learned a great deal about you. I know that you are Mr. Mason's favored private detective." It sounded like she was flipping through a notebook. "I also know that you have gotten into a lot of trouble because of it."

"So what?" Paul snapped.

"Doesn't it ever bother you, how Mr. Mason is always so concerned with his clients but feels that you are expendable?" She was still speaking in that businesslike, logical tone. It was driving Paul mad.

"That's not true!" he retorted.

"Isn't it? Surely you can't deny that he has no qualms about leading you into situations where you could lose your license."

Paul clenched a fist. "I could back out if I didn't want to do it."

"But you don't want to. Do you, Mr. Drake? You only comply, time and again, because Mr. Mason is someone you consider a friend. I have to wonder if he feels the same about you. Perhaps you're merely a convenience, a means to an end. He might not care what happens to you at all."

"Look, lady." Paul came over to the door, glaring through the bars at the vile woman. "Maybe your psychoanalyst bit works on other suckers, but it won't on me. You don't know anything about Perry or me, and I'm already sick of listening to you prattle around acting like you do."

"Very well then. Let's move on to a different subject. The district attorney, perhaps."

"What about him?" Paul shot back.

"You've long harbored a certain bitterness towards him," Portman said. "You've believed that he's been out to get you and Mr. Mason."

"That's all over and done with." Paul was disgusted.

"Perhaps that's only what he wants you to think."

"_What?"_

He could just imagine Portman's smirk of triumph. "This supposed _friendship_ you've formed with him might all be part of his plot. He might be trying to gain your trust as he sets up you and Mr. Mason for the big fall."

"You're crazy!" Paul snarled. "Yeah, maybe you could've got me to believe that a while back. But I've finally seen what Perry kept telling me all through the years—that Burger's honorable."

"Keep telling yourself that, Mr. Drake." Portman stepped back, clearly unfazed. "And if my little suggestions don't bother you in the slightest, you have an incredibly immense amount of faith in your friends.

"I'll leave you now, but we will continue this conversation later." The shadow vanished, the woman's high-heels clicking up the hallway.

Paul turned away, gritting his teeth. "I just bet we will," he muttered.

Portman's words were swirling through his mind. He had staunchly defended both Perry and Burger, and truly believed what he had said, but that did not stop Portman's arguments from bothering him anyway.

He had never liked it when Perry asked him to do something that set his license in danger. He had consented because he knew how important it was to Perry to free his clients.

. . . And because Perry was his friend.

Also, though, Perry never asked Paul to do anything that Perry would not do himself. Most of the times Paul ended up in trouble, so did Perry. He would never leave Paul to just take the fall himself.

And Burger would not set them up to take it. Certainly he would not be manipulating Paul to that end. That was crazy.

It was unsettling, though, how deeply Paul could have believed that in days gone by. He had largely thought of Burger as the enemy, even though at the same time he had come to feel a certain fondness for him. Paul had sometimes been amused or entertained by his antics. But he had never acknowledged that he thought of Burger as a friend until the catastrophe last month. Now Portman was trying to destroy that, and more. It made Paul both furious and disturbed.

He would try not to think of it any more right now. Instead he made his way back to the corner, where Jerry seemed to have slipped into unconsciousness from the drug. Reaching out, Paul grabbed his shoulder. "Jerry!" he hissed. "Major Reynolds! Come on, wake up! We have to figure out how to get out of here!"

Jerry groaned. "Mr. Drake?" He opened his eyes, but they were glassy.

"Yeah," Paul said. "It's me. Do you remember anything about what's going on?"

Jerry winced, holding a hand to his head. "You found me," he said. "I think. But then someone was fighting with us and we ended up here." He shuddered. "Something's wrong with me. My arm hurts. . . ."

"Probably where she injected you with her wonder drug," Paul grumbled. He tried to help Jerry sit up.

"Drug?" Suddenly Jerry stiffened, his flesh turning sheet-white. He gripped Paul's arm. "I have a memory, a vague memory of fighting with Mike, then running off screaming that I'd killed him. I didn't, did I?"

"No," Paul said. "He's fine." Even as he spoke, he could see that Jerry was teetering on the brink of going under from the drug again. His eyes were going from glazed to wild.

"He was supposed to die," Jerry said. "I wanted him out of my life."

Paul stared in growing alarm. "Jerry, it's that drug talking!" he exclaimed. "There's no time for this. You have to fight it!"

Jerry shoved him back. "You don't know whether it's the drug or me," he retorted. "You don't know me that well."

"But I know what you've been saying when it's you talking," Paul countered. "And it's nothing like this!"

"Maybe these are just the feelings I haven't shown anyone before," Jerry said. "Maybe this drug just brings out what I'm really thinking and wanting."

Paul wanted to protest, but the words died on his lips. What if Jerry was right? What if that was how Portman got people under her thumb, by finding their dark emotions and using her drugs to magnify them out of proportion?

Jerry cringed, a hand flying to his forehead. "What am I talking about?" he said through clenched teeth. "I don't want to kill Mike."

"Yeah," Paul said. "Sure you don't."

But his shoulders sagged. Now he wondered.


	13. Elaine

**Chapter Thirteen**

Perry received Captain McVey's phone call on the way to the mouth of the canyon. McVey reported on the discouraging news from the bunker but also mentioned the information on Elaine, and they mutually agreed to meet halfway.

The general mood over the entire party was grim. Perry was frantic; two friends were missing and they had lost their last possible lead. Della and Hamilton were both sick at heart as well. And although Perry wanted to know what had been discovered about Elaine, he had his doubts that it would solve this latest, more pressing problem.

"There they are!" Della exclaimed, breaking the uneasy silence in Perry's car. "I think." She pointed ahead to what looked like a small group of Jeeps and a police car.

"Yes," Perry nodded. "That must be them." He pulled over to the side of the road. Within moments, the other vehicles had joined his black convertible. Perry and McVey got out about the same time, crossing the short distance to each other. Lieutenant Tragg hastened to catch up.

"Well, so now we're all here," Tragg said. "Now, what is this information you have for us, Captain?"

McVey sighed as they approached. "I wish I had better news for both of you," he said. "What was found in the bunker were strips of paper in a garbage can. They seem to be from part of a folder about Elaine Darrow." He held out a file folder. "The taskforce pieced them together and came up with this."

Perry accepted it and he and Tragg peered at it together. "According to this, Elaine Darrow already had a criminal record," he frowned. "And yet it didn't come up when she was arrested for murder."

"It looks like the Elaine Darrow with a prior criminal record wasn't the same person," Tragg noted. "Look at this description! 'Black hair, brown eyes, forty-three. . . .' If you can find any similarity between that and your brown-haired twenty-something client, Counselor, I'll eat my hat."

Perry frowned. "Something is strange somewhere," he said.

"Maybe it was just an elaborate disguise," Hamilton suggested. "But that wouldn't explain fingerprints, would it." He frowned deeply as he pondered.

"No, it wouldn't explain fingerprints," Perry agreed. He gazed into the distance. "And it wouldn't explain why information on another Elaine Darrow was left for us to find."

"_Left_ for us?" McVey stared at him. "You think we were supposed to see this?"

"For some reason, yes," Perry said.

Caldwell nodded. "It wouldn't be left when everything else about the guinea pigs was taken away."

McVey sighed. "You're probably right. It fits with everything we know about Portman. But that doesn't get us any closer to the _why._"

Perry considered that. "You know, something has been bothering me about this entire problem. From all accounts, Portman prefers using men as her test subjects. So why would she use Elaine?"

"It's not unheard-of for her to use women," Caldwell said.

"I know," Perry nodded. "But I just don't understand why she would pick Elaine." He glanced to Della. "Della, do you still have that folder that we were supposed to take and show her?"

Della blinked in surprise. "I might," she said. "I don't remember taking it back to the office. I think I had it in the car, ready to take to her, and then we didn't remember to bring it up before we found out she'd . . ." She trailed off.

"See if it's there, will you, Della?" Perry said, patting her shoulder in quiet understanding.

Della hurried to do so. Hamilton stared in perplexity.

"I think I saw a folder in the car," he said. "But Perry, how in the world do you think that's going to help us now?"

"Maybe it won't," Perry said. "What it is, or what I _thought_ it was, is a collection of receipts of Elaine's purchases the past couple of months. I didn't know until Della brought it back. Elaine had wanted me to get it from the home of a friend of hers. She had a compulsion about saving her receipts."

"Well, that sounds fairly innocuous," Hamilton blinked.

"I agree," Perry said. "That was why, when I saw what it was, I was sure it was inconsequential. But now I'm not so sure. I remember seeing one of the receipts that looked slightly suspicious." He looked over as Della hurried up to him, folder in hand. "Thank you, Della." He opened it and flipped through, while Della and Hamilton gathered around. "Here it is!" He took out a particular receipt and held it up. "These materials she purchased from this electronics store. Isn't it possible that they could have been used to make Portman's mind-control chips?"

Hamilton stared at it. "I can't claim to know much about electronics, but I guess it's possible."

Della regarded Perry in confusion. "Perry, would it be that much of a surprise for Elaine to do Portman's shopping? I always assumed she probably ran errands like that."

Perry nodded. "But it means Elaine was likely lying to us about more than just being Portman's assistant. I remember she said that she thought Portman was going to San Diego, not Los Angeles." He waved the receipt. "This receipt is for a store in Los Angeles. And it's dated the week before she was arrested. She shouldn't have been in Los Angeles at that time."

"If she was in the Mojave Desert, maybe Los Angeles was the closest city to her location," Hamilton suggested.

"Perhaps," Perry said. "But I want to know more about this. The clerk's name is on this receipt. I want to go to this store and find him."

"It's a long shot," Tragg spoke up. "He might not even remember now."

"It's worth a try, isn't it?" Perry glanced at his watch. "The store should still be open. If we hurry, and call ahead to explain the problem, we might make it in time."

Tragg shrugged. "I'm game," he said. "Let's go." He reached for the receipt, which Perry willingly handed to him. Caldwell wandered over to look at it.

Perry looked to him. "Do you have anything to add to this?"

"Nothing," Caldwell said. "I was . . . well, I was at Vandenberg at the time. I have no idea what Elaine Darrow was up to."

"I thought as much," Perry said.

Everyone hurried back to their vehicles. As Della and Hamilton followed Perry back to the convertible, Hamilton exclaimed, "Perry, I still don't understand what you're hoping to prove. So she was here a week before she was supposed to be. So what?"

Perry climbed into the car and waited for Hamilton and Della. "What I'm hoping to prove, Hamilton," he said, starting the engine, "is the reason Elaine died. I'm wondering if she either got the material for Portman's chips of her own free will . . . or if she decided to make some chips herself."

"Why would she do that?" Hamilton said in disbelief.

"Maybe she was as much of a mad scientist as Portman," Perry said. "What if she took that man not because she was trying to help him escape, but because she wanted to experiment on him herself?"

Hamilton gaped at him. "Perry, do you realize what you're saying? I've never heard you talk like this about a client of yours before."

"I'm the first to concede that a client isn't what I thought she was, if she turns out to be something completely different," Perry said.

"Okay, I'll give you that," Hamilton said. "But I still say what you're trying to come up with now is a stretch."

"Mr. Burger, you know how often Perry makes something out of a stretch," Della smiled.

Hamilton sighed. "Alright, you've got me," he conceded. "I won't say anything more until we find the clerk."

xxxx

It was thanks to Lieutenant Tragg that they got into the store. He and Captain McVey had gone out ahead and arrived first, and Tragg had been in the process of showing the receipt to the assistant manager when Perry, Della, and Hamilton pulled up.

"Well, Counselor, it seems that the clerk you want is a Mister Jeremy Busch," Tragg greeted as they trouped inside moments later. He was leaning on the blue desk, quite calm and at ease and showing no sign one way or the other of how he felt about the whole procedure.

"Is he here?" Perry demanded.

"At the moment, no," Tragg replied, "but he got off work not that long ago. The assistant manager is attempting to reach him on the phone."

"Oh, I hope he can," Della exclaimed. They were grasping at straws, perhaps, and even if the clerk could shed some light on this element there was no guarantee that it would help them find Paul and Jerry. But there seemed little else they could try.

Within five minutes the brunet assistant manager emerged from the Employees Only area. "Lieutenant, I have Jeremy on the line," he said. "Do you want to talk to him on the phone or arrange to meet him somewhere?"

Tragg glanced to Perry. "Do you have a photograph of Ms. Darrow?"

Perry shook his head. "I'm afraid not, other than this picture in the newspaper."

Tragg nodded. "Then I suppose it doesn't make much difference. He's probably seen the paper." He looked to the assistant manager. "We'll see if we can conduct our business over the phone."

"Come this way then." The assistant manager led Tragg and the others through the Employees Only doors and into his office, where a telephone was on speaker. "This must be something really big," he commented. "The police and the Air Force both?"

Tragg nodded. "You could say that."

The other man looked bowled over. "I'd . . . better leave you alone then," he said. "I'm assuming this is a very private call."

"It is," Tragg agreed.

The assistant manager hastened out, shutting the door behind him.

"Hello?" came a young man's voice from the speaker.

Tragg went over and leaned on the desk, his hands propped upon it. "Hello, Mr. Busch," he greeted, his tone amiable. "I'm Lieutenant Tragg of the Los Angeles Police Department, Homicide Division. Did your assistant manager inform you of what this is about?"

"Um, no, Sir. Just that the police needed to talk to me about a purchase someone made. I don't know how much help I'll be. I see dozens of people every day."

"Yes, I'm sure you do," Tragg said. "Well, the transaction we're interested in happened about three weeks ago. A young woman came in and purchased some electronic equipment. She gave her name as Elaine Darrow."

"Well . . . what did she look like?"

Tragg glanced at Perry before continuing. "Oh . . . five-five, five-six . . . early twenties . . . light brown hair, short and straight . . . blue eyes. . . ."

"And what kind of stuff was it she bought?"

Tragg read off the list of products on the receipt.

"And this was three weeks ago?"

"Yes," Tragg said. "On a Monday, to be exact."

"I _think_ I remember her."

Perry perked up and leaned over the desk as well. "Jeremy, this is Perry Mason. I was Ms. Darrow's attorney. She was arrested a week after making these purchases. Last night she was found dead in her cell."

"Oh, that was _her!_" Jeremy gasped. Finally recognition was in his voice. "Yeah, sure, Mr. Mason, I remember her. I saw the paper today and was pretty freaked out when I recognized her. What happened?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Perry said. "Do you remember anything she said to you when she bought her equipment?"

"Well, let me think." Jeremy was silent for a moment. "She said she was getting all that stuff for some kind of experiment. She wouldn't tell me what it was. She said maybe I'd find out if it worked."

"How did she behave? Was she calm? Nervous?"

"Oh, she was real calm. Cool as a cucumber. Acted like she was pretty satisfied with what she was going to do."

"That doesn't sound like Elaine," Della frowned.

"Unless she really wasn't as she appeared to be," Perry said.

Captain McVey shook his head. "It sounds a lot like the way Dr. Portman would have acted."

Perry whirled to stare at him. Then he turned back to the phone with a new determination. "Jeremy, are you absolutely positive the woman in the paper is the woman who was in the store?"

". . . I sure thought so," Jeremy said. "Why, Mr. Mason? What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure," Perry said. "Maybe nothing. But tell me, Jeremy. Did she say anything about where she lived?"

"Nope, but she made a point of talking about where she _wanted _to live," Jeremy said. "She asked me if I knew a good place in L.A. that was cheap and quiet, maybe away from other people. She said she didn't want anyone around to barge on in her experiments until they were done."

"And what did you tell her?"

"I don't know. I mean, I'm not up with places like that. I wasn't sure where she could go. I said maybe she could find some old dump that was foreclosed on or something."

"Did she act like she might take your suggestion?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Somebody else got in line then and she clammed up. Thanked me and ran off. I guess she didn't want anyone else to hear what we were talking about."

"I guess not." Perry leaned back. "Well, thank you, Jeremy. You've been quite helpful."

"I have?"

"That's right. We might be able to solve this now." Perry looked to the bewildered Lieutenant Tragg. "Is there anything else you want to ask, Lieutenant?"

"No," Tragg said slowly. "No, I don't think so. Thank you, Mr. Busch. You can go now."

"Okay. Bye, Lieutenant, Mr. Mason."

As soon as the _click_ came over the receiver all eyes turned to Perry. "Perry, what's going on?" Tragg demanded. "You're acting like you know all the answers. As usual," he muttered as an aside.

"I may have been approaching this all wrong," Perry said. "And perhaps I was more right to begin with than I even realized. Maybe Elaine actually _was_ a victim here. And maybe she didn't kill herself—at least not of her own free will."

"Perry, will you stop speaking in riddles, please?" Hamilton exclaimed. "What are you trying to tell us?"

"What if Elaine was an assistant, as she told us? And what if she was going to blow the whistle on Portman?" Perry was grim. "What if Portman knew it? Wouldn't that be enough to maybe make her decide to use Elaine as an experiment, even if she hadn't planned on it?"

". . . I suppose that's possible," McVey acknowledged.

"She'd do it," Caldwell nodded.

"And with this chip in place, she could potentially make Elaine do and say whatever she wanted, couldn't she?" Perry continued.

". . . Potentially," Tragg agreed.

"So Elaine could have picked up the materials, but against her will. Perhaps Portman even spoke through her." Perry's eyes narrowed. "Portman could have manipulated her right into getting arrested and eventually committing suicide."

Hamilton's mouth dropped open. "You mean the chip could have made her hang herself?"

"Exactly. That would also explain why the other prisoners didn't hear anything." Perry looked to Tragg. "Was an autopsy performed?"

"No," Tragg said, shaking his head. "The cause of death seemed quite obvious."

"Portman was counting on that," Perry said. "The chip wouldn't be found. And her evil plans would go unnoticed."

Tragg straightened. "I'll order an autopsy right now."

Della was horrified. "Oh, poor Elaine!" she exclaimed. Perry's theory was terrible but plausible. And Della had to admit that she would rather believe it than that Elaine was a deliberate antagonist and another mad scientist. But it was still chilling.

"Mr. Mason," McVey spoke, "even if any or all of this is true, what about Major Reynolds and Mr. Drake? Are you assuming that Portman took out one of those foreclosed homes and is keeping them there?"

"Possible, but unlikely," Perry said. He sighed. "Hamilton, from those reports in Oregon, didn't she often use abandoned homes, moving in secretly without paying a cent?"

"She did that at least once or twice," Hamilton said in surprise. "But the police are already checking all abandoned homes in the county."

"And they should keep at it," Perry said. "Are they also checking the foreclosed homes and warehouses?"

"Warehouses, yes," Tragg said. "I don't know if they're checking the foreclosed homes. But you just said . . ."

"I said I didn't think she would _take out_ one of the foreclosed homes," Perry said. "I doubt she would pay money for whatever residence she wanted. But she might simply move in."

"She would be taking a risk," Hamilton protested. "Someone could show up any time with a prospective buyer or even just to inspect the place."

Perry nodded. "Most likely, if she wanted a foreclosed house, she would first examine a list and find all the ones most undesirable. Those would be the least likely to be intruded upon."

Tragg frowned deeply. "That's a possibility," he said. "I'll have Andy get hold of a copy of that list."

"Good." Perry's look was filled with determination. "We're going to find both Paul and Jerry."

The question was, how bad off would they be by that point? No one wanted to think about that, but it had to be taken into consideration. Alice Portman was completely merciless. No one was safe as long as they were under her thumb.

xxxx

Paul had been planning.

Portman had been by again, tormenting him with more of her parade of attempts to get him to have even a speck of doubt in his friends. It had been more of the same—why Perry was so inconsiderate of him and so thoughtful of his clients, why Paul believed Hamilton was a good person after all of his bitter doubts. . . . She had even dared to insinuate that he had romantic feelings for Della and Perry knew it, but did nothing.

Paul hated Portman's words. He hated the lies she crafted and how she tried to paint them so cleverly as the truth. He hated how she continually tried to make a rift between him and the others.

He hated even more that she was sparking some semblance of confusion.

Oh, he knew he did not carry romantic feelings for Della. His flirting with her was playful and not serious. Perry knew _that,_ and that was why he "did nothing."

But Paul had been frustrated over the chances he took for Perry's clients, many a time.

Yet he knew Perry was considerate and concerned for him. Perry did not want anything to happen to him. And he acknowledged the hard work Paul did.

Although not always as much as Paul might have liked.

And Hamilton. Paul had only recently become aware that he felt friendly towards the district attorney, and had for some time. After what they had been through trying to get everyone else to remember the truth last month, it would have been impossible for him not to find those feelings at long last.

But Burger had not told him everything about what was going on back then.

No. The only things he had not told Paul about the situation were some of the untrue stories Tragg and others thought about him due to Vivalene's manipulation of their minds. It was true, what he had said back then—why would he have wanted to tell Paul that, when he thought Paul hated him?

Still, Paul only had Hamilton's word about that being all. There could have been more.

He dug his hands into his hair. He was just letting himself fall into Portman's trap. She did this sort of thing to all of her test subjects. And the longer he stayed here, the more he was going to doubt himself and his friends.

He looked to Jerry. The other man had been woozy and dazed for the last couple of hours, but he had been ever so slowly coming back to himself. Now he was sitting up against the wall, a hand to his head.

Paul hastened to his side. "Jerry!" he hissed. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a truck ran me down," Jerry mumbled. "Mr. Drake, I can barely remember the last few hours. I know I fought with Mike, and you found me, and we were brought here, but it's all such a blur."

"Yeah, I know." Paul gripped Jerry's shoulder. "Look, we have to get out of here. The longer we stay here, the more ammo Portman's going to have to throw at us."

Jerry peered at him. "You don't have to tell me that. But how do you think we're going to be able to get out?"

"I don't know," Paul said. "Maybe if you made a commotion and pretended to flip out, a guard would show up and open the door." He winced. ". . . Or on the other hand, maybe they'd sit down and watch. Portman said she wanted you to kill me."

Jerry considered that. "What if _you_ pretended to lose your mind?" he suggested.

"What?" Paul stared. "How would that help?"

Jerry moved closer to him and lowered his voice. "I don't remember much, but I know Portman was talking to you, trying to make you turn against Perry and Mr. Burger. What if you started acting as though you were having doubts, even just slightly? Maybe Portman would decide to turn you loose to find them. And I could encourage you and talk about wanting to kill Mike so she might let me go too."

Paul frowned. "Maybe," he said slowly. "But would Portman buy it, at least coming from me? She might expect me to try to trick her. She'd probably just keep me around longer, wanting to talk me into getting worse and worse. And we can't wait around for that." He did not want to admit that he was afraid of what he might start thinking if Portman kept on with her brainwashing.

"That's true," Jerry said. "We can't. But we have to try something. Right now, I don't know of anything else that might make her and her lackeys let down their guard."

Paul heaved a sigh. "Okay. I'll _try_ to convince her I'm having doubts." _And just hope I don't start convincing myself of it even more,_ he added to himself.

Jerry relaxed. "Good. Let's see if we can get out of here by morning."

Paul peered at him. "You're pretty ambitious."

"We don't have time to dawdle," Jerry said. "You want to get out of here right away yourself."

"I know," Paul said. "I do."

"So how about it?" Jerry was as revived as Paul had seen him since they had been abducted. He was either fighting back the drug much better or it was wearing off. And if it was the latter, he might be given a new dosage before long. Paul did not want to see that.

"We'll see what we can do," Paul consented at last.

xxxx

As it turned out, convincing Portman was not that difficult. Or at least, it did not appear to be. She turned both Paul and Jerry loose after a couple more hours, with some of her men to shadow them. Paul was immediately suspicious.

He had every right to be.


	14. Chip

**Notes: Happy Easter, everyone! There are only two segments at the most after this, but more likely one. It depends on how many loose ends I've left dangling. I have a tentative plot for another mystery, one that will heavily involve Paul if I finish its first chapter and post it. Thank you for your interest through this wild ride, whether in reviewing or reading silently! I know this is a very odd story. I had countless doubts about whether to do the stranger explanation of Jerry's stalker or if it should all be a fraud. But in the end, because I started this story in the first place due to my dissatisfaction with Captain Caldwell's death in the series, I opted for my original intentions.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

By the early morning hours the list of foreclosed homes and their conditions had been received and pored over multiple times by the police, the Air Force, and Perry and company. The most likely possibilities were selected and the police and the special taskforce sent to investigate. Perry, Della, and Hamilton went with the latter as they looked at the five top houses.

"I'm so nervous I can hardly stand it," Della admitted. "What are we going to find? Paul? Jerry? . . . Someone else who's in just as much trouble?" She clutched her purse.

Perry's expression was grim. "I'm afraid we're very likely to find someone in serious trouble," he said. "But who it will be I don't know."

"And if this peters out too, then what?" Hamilton worried.

"We'll start worrying about that if it happens," Perry replied. Right now he had a tense hope.

The first two places were empty and showed no signs of habitation. But it was while they were en route to the third that they made a shocking discovery.

"Look!" Della cried. She leaned forward in the car, pointing out the windshield. "It's Paul! And Jerry!"

"And two men close behind them," Perry frowned. He pulled over to the side of the road. At their side the taskforce's van was doing the same.

Caldwell was the first one out. Although not part of the taskforce, his presence had been desired by Captain McVey. And Caldwell had had no intention of staying behind in any case. "Jerry!" he cried. He was on edge; after his last encounter with Jerry he did not know what to expect.

Jerry was conflicted, and clearly showed it as he looked back. But if this was to work, he would have to continue playing his part. He knew that Portman's men had been tailing him and Paul. They were there to see that the jobs were done as planned. And he had pretended to still be drugged at the house, going on a spiel concerning the murder of Captain Caldwell. If he revealed the truth now, who knew what might happen.

The conflict vanished; his expression hardened. "This time there really won't be any escape, Mike!" he snapped. "I won't let you off easy."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake. Listen to yourself, Jerry!" Caldwell exclaimed. "Portman's got you now. She's got you good. And maybe she doesn't want to see me dead, but you're expendable. If you try to kill me, she'll see to it that _you're_ killed before you have the chance to let the final blow fall. She might even activate that chip again so that _I'll_ be sure to do the deed. We both know that isn't what you want, Major."

Della looked from Jerry to Paul. "Paul, isn't there something you can do?" she pleaded. "You can't let this happen!"

Paul frowned. Although his insides were twisting at what he had to do now, outwardly he could not look more unmoved. "Sorry," he said. "He's got a bone to pick. And right now, so do I. A couple of them."

Hamilton stiffened. "Has Portman got to him too?" he hissed.

"I don't know." Perry's frown was deep and concerned. Louder he said, "Paul, what are you talking about?"

Paul sent up a silent plea for forgiveness. He would try not to let this go too far, and to find some way to let Perry know that he was not under Portman's control. With any luck, they could turn this to their favor before long.

"I'm talking about things Portman said," he retorted. "They made sense."

"Paul, you can't be serious!" Della burst out.

Perry held up a hand as she stepped forward. "Wait a minute, Della." He started towards Paul himself. "Just what kinds of things made sense?"

"You know, I really hate being used," Paul said, looking from Perry to Hamilton. "That's always been one of my biggest beefs."

Now Hamilton started after Paul too. He had not missed that look. "Are you saying you think we've been using you?" he cried.

"Well, let's just say I've been wondering." Paul stopped in the middle of the road. "There's some things I want to talk out."

"Fine, Paul," Perry said. "We'll discuss it as soon as this problem is under control." He looked to Jerry, who had met Mike in the street and was shouting at him. Caldwell was starting to shout back.

Paul glanced to them too, then away. They would have to catch Portman's men perfectly off-guard for this to work. It was going to be tricky. They were still far behind, half-hidden behind the trees, but on high alert.

"No!" he said. "We're going to discuss it now."

And Della refused to continue staying back. She marched right out, past the two alarmed men, and positioned herself squarely in front of Paul. "Paul Drake, I can't believe what I'm hearing!" Her eyes flashed with a mixture of confusion, disbelief, anger, and most of all, hurt. "After everything we've heard about that woman and what she does to people, you allowed her to turn you into her latest project? How can you possibly stand here and accuse Perry and Mr. Burger of using you?"

Perry's eyes flickered. "She's right," he murmured. "If Paul isn't under the influence of a drug or a chip or something else, how could he?"

Hamilton started. "Huh?" He looked to Perry in surprise. "Are you saying you think he's faking?"

"Maybe. I just can't believe Portman could get to him this fast with only her psychological tricks at hand." Perry returned Hamilton's look. "Paul may very well be faking. How else would he and Jerry get Portman to let them out? Hamilton, let's play along for a few minutes. I think Paul could have a definite plan here. Jerry could be in on it, too. His eyes look too clear for him to still be affected by that drug."

Hamilton considered Perry's words. "Alright, Perry," he said. "I'll go along with you on this. Frankly, I can hardly believe Portman could get to him so fast either."

"Good." Perry turned back to Paul and Della and came forward. "Paul, I'm chagrined. I thought you knew me better than this. And Hamilton too."

"Was it all talk?" Hamilton appeared on Della's other side, his eyes narrowed. "You acting like you understood me better and wanting to make amends? Maybe I should've known better than to trust you."

Paul looked from him to Perry. He had the feeling that Perry had figured it out, but was he right? Or were Perry and Burger honestly upset and hurt, as Della was? Guilt rushed over him as he continued the charade.

"Maybe you should have," he countered. "Or maybe _I_ should be the one saying that. Maybe this was all one of your tricks to get at Perry and me. Maybe you've been manipulating me all along!"

"Paul Drake!" Della exclaimed. "Hamilton Burger would never do that, to you or anyone else! He's an honorable, good man!"

"I'm kind of surprised to hear you defending him as well as Perry," Paul said.

That only fazed Della for a moment. "And why shouldn't I? He's our friend!"

While that was going on, Jerry was throwing a punch at Mike. But he missed on purpose and stumbled into the stunned captain. "Mike, this is all an act," he hissed. "Those men of Portman's are watching to make sure we do what we claimed we would. They have to be stopped!"

Caldwell looked into the shadows while pretending to shove Jerry out of the way. The men in question were there. One was starting to lift his rifle, aiming ever so carefully at Jerry.

"Look out!" Caldwell screamed. He tackled Jerry to the asphalt just as the gun fired.

Jerry lay dazed, gazing up at his former comrade-in-arms. "Mike . . . you just saved my life," he realized.

Mike looked up, rattled from the close call. "I guess I did," he breathed. Some blood was trickling from his arm, but he ignored it. The bullet had just nicked him.

The gunfire had sent everyone scattering and the taskforce into position. They returned fire, bringing the shooter to the ground. The other man in front dropped his weapon and raised his hands to the sky. "Don't shoot!" he cried. "I'll surrender!"

Captain McVey moved in to take him into custody. "Tell us what's going on here," he barked as he conducted a swift search of both him and the other, wounded man.

Paul pushed himself up from the ground. "_I'll_ tell you," he said. "Jerry and I hatched this plan to get Portman to let us go. We couldn't think of anything else to try. I'm sorry if anyone got hurt."

Perry slowly got to his feet, helping Della at the same time. "I thought that must be it," he said. "I'll admit you had me stunned for a few minutes there, Paul. But then what Della said made me realize what was probably going on."

"What _I _said?" Della looked from Perry to Paul. Now she looked dismayed. "I don't know what I was thinking. Paul, are you saying this was all just an act?" She shook her head. "I couldn't imagine, but you really had me believing . . ." The regret was in her eyes. "Oh Paul, can you ever forgive me?"

"I was just about to ask for everyone's forgiveness," Paul said. "It had to look convincing."

"You almost had me believing it," Hamilton said.

Mike was largely not paying attention to them. Shuddering, he backed away from Jerry, his eyes wild and filled with panic. Jerry sat up, perplexed. "Mike, what is it?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

"She knows," Mike rasped. "She knows about all of this. And she's turning on the chip again. Jerry, get away from me!"

Jerry backed up. "We have to do something!" he burst out. "If we could just get Portman stopped!"

"We were just going to a house where we thought she might be when _we_ were stopped," Perry said.

"Then you're probably right, Perry," Jerry said. "Let's go! If we hurry, maybe she'll still be there!"

Everyone concurred, climbing quickly into their vehicles. The taskforce brought their prisoners.

Jerry sat near the agonized Mike. "It's going to be alright, Mike," he vowed. "We'll catch up to Portman and deactivate the chip. I promise."

"There's always the possibility that it _can't_ be deactivated altogether," Mike answered through clenched teeth.

"I know," Jerry agreed, "but there's also the possibility that it can."

Paul climbed into Perry's car. He was still feeling guilty about what he had said to further the façade. Or perhaps, he wondered, still sicker at the thought, his guilt might mainly stem from the fact that Portman had made him think. However much he had fought against the ideas, it did not change that he had harbored doubts. He did not blame Della in the least for being angry. He was angry with himself too.

Perry frowned as he caught sight of Paul in the rear-view mirror. "Paul, are you alright?" he asked.

"Huh?" Paul started to attention. "Oh. Yeah, I'm fine, Perry. We'd better get going if we want to catch Portman."

Perry started the engine and drove off after the taskforce's van. "You don't need to be upset about what you said. Under the circumstances, you had to."

"I know," Paul nodded.

Perry frowned. Something was still wrong; he could tell. But it would have to wait. He wanted to focus all of his attention on it when it was discussed, and right now he could not do that.

They had a madwoman to corner.

xxxx

The hideout was indeed the third house that had been chosen from the list. And aside from the guards Portman likely had at all exits, it looked very much like a normal, vacant house.

"I wonder if she'll be expecting us," Perry commented as he parked.

"Oh, you can count on it," Paul said. "I have the feeling that not much gets past her."

"How right you are, Mr. Drake."

Everyone jumped a mile at Captain Caldwell's words. He had gotten out of the van, his features twisted in pain as he spoke. And somehow, the tone to his voice sent a chill of realization down Perry's spine.

"You're speaking Portman's words now, aren't you?" he said.

"How very astute of you, Mr. Mason." Caldwell straightened, smirking at him. Jerry and Captain McVey gaped. "Yes, with my chip I can put specific words into this man's mind. Have you figured out yet that you can't remove the chip? It's in his brain. The only thing you can do is shut it off permanently. And unfortunately for you, I have the key."

"If you've been hearing everything we've said, you know we're right outside," Perry said. "You haven't tried to get away this time."

"No, I haven't. I decided it was time we met face-to-face." Caldwell gestured to the door. "I want to speak with you, Mr. Mason, and only you. If anyone else tries to come inside, my men have orders to shoot to kill."

His eyes flickered in his alarm. Caldwell was trying to regain control of his speech. "No," he gasped. "Don't go in there, Mr. Mason. She'll never . . . let you . . . leave." He grimaced. "She'll try to put a chip in you. Or inject you with a drug if she wants . . . quicker . . . results."

Della grabbed Perry's arm. "Perry, you can't!" she exclaimed.

Perry looked to her and smiled. "I'll be alright, Della," he said. "I've been wanting to talk with Portman myself. Especially about Elaine Darrow." He moved to leave but then paused. ". . . Perhaps the guards have something useful to this situation in their uniforms."

McVey's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Mason, I don't like this."

Perry was already starting towards the gate. "I don't expect our business will take long," he said. "Maybe five minutes."

Della whirled to look at McVey, but he was already heading back to the van. "At least one of us has to get in there with him," he was saying to one of the men on the taskforce. "There'd better be someone here who can fit into the uniform of the guard we arrested. The one we didn't shoot," he added.

Della relaxed. "Oh good. He got Perry's message."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "His 'message'?"

"That's right. Remember, Mr. Burger, the guards' uniforms were already searched. So Perry wasn't talking about that. He wants someone to impersonate a guard in five minutes." Della looked to the house. "And if someone can overpower a real guard and get in, maybe the rest of us will be able to get inside too."

"Maybe 'the rest of us' will just include the taskforce, Miss Street," Hamilton replied. "I don't think they'll want civilians in there."

"Well, Perry's in there, and I intend to go in and see that he gets out," Della said.

Hamilton shook his head. "Yes, I'm sure you do. But Perry wouldn't want you to do anything dangerous. Neither will the Air Force." He wondered why he even bothered to say it. He might as well be talking with a brick wall, for all the good it did.

Della just regarded him calmly and unfazed. "Mr. Burger, shouldn't the police be called and told that we've found the hideout?"

"Yes," Hamilton replied. He sighed, taking out his cellphone. "I'll see if I can reach Tragg."

xxxx

Perry was not sure what he expected from Dr. Alice Portman. But when two guards escorted him into the basement laboratory and he saw the woman, he was somewhat surprised.

She was a small woman as far as physical size went. She looked the part of a typical scientist, with her white coat and glasses. Even her short-cropped blonde hair fit well with the image. However, as she set aside a heavy book and stood, her sharp and cool greenish eyes revealed her true nature. None of it was good.

Perry's own eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "So you're Dr. Portman," he greeted. "You didn't look like someone who could have masterminded all of this."

"_Didn't_, Mr. Mason?" Portman returned. "Has something changed your mind?"

"Your eyes, Doctor. I can immediately tell from your eyes that you have no qualms about any of the monstrous things you've done."

Portman did not care. "I've heard such things from many people, Mr. Mason. It bores me. Why don't we get down to the business at hand?"

"Why don't we," Perry agreed. "Tell me about Elaine Darrow."

"Which one?" Portman quipped.

"Both of them," Perry answered without missing a beat.

"Very well." Portman walked around the long instrument table. "The one whose dossier I left shredded in the bunker was your client's mother. She worked with me as a partner when I first began my work. She was a small-time criminal looking to better her life."

"And did she share your goals?"

"Oh, she wanted to 'better humanity', she claimed, but her vision was too small."

"In other words, she didn't like how you were going about it."

"In other words, yes." Portman shrugged in a nonchalant sort of way. "Eventually she was of no use to me and I had to dispose of her. I held onto her daughter in the hopes that she would be useful to me."

Perry was growing further repulsed by the minute. "Did she know what you did with her mother?" he demanded.

"Not for some time. I convinced her there was an accident. Oh, she worked for me quite willingly until she learned the truth. Then she wanted to leave."

"Were your experiments the same then as now?"

"I've always worked towards the same goals, Mr. Mason. It's just that the individual experiments change over time as I develop new concepts and ways to utilize them.

"I told the younger Elaine that I was ultimately seeking the power to restore life to the dead, and that when I found it, her mother could be brought back. The first part was true, at least."

"But of course you had no intention of reviving someone who wanted to expose you," Perry finished in disgust.

"Is that so illogical?"

"No," Perry said, "but it's further proof of your cruel inhumanity."

"The rest happened much as you surmised earlier, Mr. Mason. Instead of disposing of Elaine right away, I decided to see how far I could go with my chips by using one on her. And eventually I managed to get her to kill herself. It's as I've always believed—humanity is weak. Their will can be taken and shaped so easily, just like clay."

"You're wrong, Doctor." Perry stepped closer to her. "Humanity is strong. Perhaps Elaine had no willpower left to fight you. Perhaps you had broken her and she didn't want to live. And so perhaps, in a sense, what happened was an assisted suicide. We'll probably never know.

"But your other recent 'experiment', Captain Caldwell, has behaved far differently. He has never given up. He refuses to let you destroy his spirit and his will. Even now, when you took control of his very speech, he fought to get it back."

Portman's eyes glimmered. "He is one of my most fascinating projects. Most others would have crumbled long ago under the strain.

"But breaking a spirit is an extensive undertaking. I can plant the seeds; however, sometimes it takes them a while to sprout." She adjusted her glasses. "Your detective friend, Mr. Mason, was very resilient in defending you and the district attorney. Nevertheless, and despite his performance moments ago, my seeds did take root. I can always tell." Perry's expression darkened. "If you don't believe me, ask him."

"Even if that's true, he's fought whatever doubts you planted in him," Perry retorted. "_I_ can tell _that._"

"Perhaps they'll fester for some time before bursting forth. Or perhaps they'll wither and die. Either is equally possible at this point. Who are you to determine which way it will go?"

"I know Paul," Perry said. "You don't. And I know that even if there is a conflict currently in his heart, he won't let himself be ruled by the likes of you."

"So confident, aren't you, Mr. Mason. Or is it arrogance. Or both? They often march hand in hand." Portman reached over to the console she was now standing beside and pressed a button. "I wonder how effective your will would be against some of my strongest methods."

Perry held his ground. He had expected something like this. "If you try that on me, I promise you that you will regret it."

Four of Portman's men appeared and began to close in on Perry. Portman stood by, observing with satisfaction.

"Idle threats don't frighten me. Neither does the Air Force's little taskforce. Even if they burst in to save you, they can't stop an injection of one of my drugs."

"Maybe not," Perry agreed. "But I have the feeling that your prize experiments may just be your undoing."

"And what do you mean by that?" Portman countered.

Perry smiled, even as he was surrounded. "Let's wait a moment or two and see. Shall we, Doctor?"

"It's pointless," Portman said. "You're merely stalling for time. Guards, restrain and inject him!"

Perry braced himself for the struggle. The five minutes were up, but that did not mean he would simply do nothing and wait for the others to burst in. Portman's lackeys would have to try desperately hard to get him to hold still long enough for any sort of injection.

Without warning, the two men behind him slumped down with a shared groan. Perry and the other two men whirled around in surprised shock. Captain Caldwell stood where the first two had stood, his hands outstretched from squeezing their pressure points. He met Perry's eyes for a brief moment before looking to the stunned Dr. Portman.

"Hello, _Doctor,_" he greeted with a mocking smirk.

Portman was reeling. "How did you get in here?" she demanded. "I left you fighting for control of yourself!"

"Oh, that's right. You forgot about me. You gave orders to shoot anyone entering, but not me. When I walked up to the door, they thought it was what you wanted and let me on through. I rendered them unconscious and let the others in. Right now, your cozy place is surrounded by the Air Force and the L.A.P.D." Caldwell looked pleased with himself. "I suggest you give up while you still can."

This news seemed to completely unhinge the woman. She backed up against the console. "No!" she burst out. "No, I won't be defeated like this. You don't have any willpower of your own. You have only what I give you!" She reached to turn a dial. "Now you're going to fight Mr. Mason and subdue him for me!"

Perry was at her side in an instant, grabbing her wrist and holding it away from the mind-controlling knobs. "No, Doctor," he said. "He isn't."

Portman's eyes flashed in fury. But though she fought to pull free, Perry held fast. When one of the other two guards moved to attack, the remaining one turned on him, delivering a knockout punch. Perry was pleased. Now he recognized that man as a member of the taskforce. When Della, Paul, and Hamilton hurried in seconds later with Captain McVey, it was all over.

"Perry!" Della exclaimed, hurrying to his side. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." Perry smiled at her, observing in satisfaction as Portman was handcuffed and escorted out of the room by Captain McVey. "It's over."

Caldwell turned to gaze at the hateful console, filled with all the commands and devices that Portman had used to take hold of his mind via the chip. "Is it?" he voiced aloud.

Perry looked to him, Portman's words concerning the placement of the chip echoing through his mind. A deep anger and regret filled his heart. Would it ever be over for Captain Caldwell? If Portman had not lied, it wasn't likely that the chip could be removed. They could only deactivate it, destroy the console, and pray for the best. After being restored to life as he had been, Caldwell deserved to finally have peace.

"I hope so, Captain," Perry said. "And perhaps, the beginning of better things."


	15. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Perry, I can't tell you how grateful I am to have had your help on this case."

Jerry was standing with Perry in Perry's office, while Captains Caldwell and McVey stood to the side. Perry smiled, clapping Jerry on the shoulder.

"I'm always glad to help out a friend," he said. "Or two." He glanced to Mike. "What's going to happen now?"

"Well, we're all going back to Vandenberg," McVey said. "I'll fill out my report and Portman will be heavily interrogated. Her neurosurgeon friend is already being sought. And if she has a contact in the Air Force, he or she has to be found and arrested. And . . . well, even though we all know the truth by now, I'm not sure the Air Force at large will be convinced. Captain Caldwell may have to undergo a hearing to prove that he's really who he says he is."

Mike looked to Perry. "If that happens, will you represent me, Mr. Mason?"

"Why, I'd be most happy to," Perry said.

Jerry smiled. "And I'll see if I can pull some strings for you, Mike. You might not be able to get your old job back, but I might be able to fix it for you to work at the base." He walked over to the other man. "This time I'm going to stand by you."

Mike looked at him in amazement. "Thank you," he said. "You . . . all of you . . . have been kinder than I deserve." He glanced to Perry and McVey as well.

"Mike, we were both being manipulated by Portman," Jerry said. He shook his head. "That's some drug she uses. I felt woozy off and on for hours after it was supposed to have worn off."

"I'm glad she didn't get the chance to try it on me," Perry said.

"So am I," Mike declared. "No one deserves that fate."

"Speaking of Portman," McVey broke in, "what's happened to Mr. Drake?" He met Perry's gaze. "I haven't seen much of him since his and Major Reynolds' plan went down."

Perry sighed. "To tell you the truth, I haven't either, Captain. But I have a feeling he'll pull through just fine. Even if there are some obstacles along the way."

"I certainly hope so," McVey frowned.

"Will the three of you and Lieutenant Philips be joining us for dinner tonight before you have to go back to Vandenberg?" Perry asked, wanting to change the subject. In spite of their honest concern, he was sure Paul would not want them discussing him on this issue.

"You can count on it," Mike grinned.

"Good. Oh, Captain." Perry turned his attention to Caldwell. "Have you had any ill effects since the chip was deactivated?"

"None," was the reply. "It . . ." He frowned. "It looks like Portman's analysis was right; it can't be gotten out without a heavy risk to my life. And if I can live normally with it there, I'm in no hurry to mess with it."

Perry nodded. "We'll see how it goes, then." There was the chance, he supposed, that some kinds of electronic equipment could activate it again. Caldwell would probably have to go through a series of tests to determine if it was even safe for him to work at Vandenberg. But Perry would hope and pray for the best, as he knew the others would.

"That's all we can do," Mike said with a nod of his own.

xxxx

". . . And that's the rest of the story."

Hamilton leaned back, watching Mignon as he finished his explanation of the Caldwell case. Mignon nodded slowly, seeming lost in thought.

"I see," she said at last. "Then everything is alright for Major Reynolds and his friend?"

"As far as we can tell, yes." Hamilton sat up straighter, watching as Howie came back into the room from getting a glass of water.

". . . I suppose the dream I had may have pertained to that woman torturing Major Reynolds," Mignon remarked. "I felt that I was responsible in some way. That could be because of how I spoke with him when he visited me. It was our conversation that led him to seek out Captain Caldwell and eventually resulted in his capture."

"I guess you could look at it that way," Hamilton said slowly.

"You still don't believe in prophetic dreams, Hamilton?" Mignon watched him, still calm and collected.

"Oh, I don't really know _what_ I believe anymore, Mignon."

Instead of pursuing the topic, Mignon let it drop. Hamilton suddenly looked so tired. The last few months had greatly aged him. It was difficult, to have to be forced to accept things that he had not accepted for most of his life.

Hamilton was grateful for her silence. He used the lull in the conversation to turn his attention to the patiently waiting Howie. "And how are you doing today, Howie?" he asked. "Have you still been having those bad dreams?"

Howie shifted and looked away. "Well, kinda," he said. "Sometimes. Maybe not as much as I was."

"Good." Hamilton gestured for Howie to come closer. "Maybe sooner or later they'll go away completely. Or maybe once in a while they'll come back, but not for long. It's like I told you, Howie—horrible experiences take time to get over."

Howie nodded. "Yeah, I guess so." He made a face. "But I wish they'd go away and never come back."

"Me too," Hamilton admitted.

"Are you still having them too, Mr. Burger?" Howie asked.

"Sometimes," Hamilton said.

Mignon hid a smile. She enjoyed watching them interact. And, though Hamilton might not believe it, he was good with children. Larry had adored him and thought of him as an honorary uncle. Mignon felt that she was watching a repeat of that with Howie.

xxxx

"Uncle Arthur!"

Lieutenant Tragg started and looked up as Lucy bounded into the kitchen. She was all smiles and excited about something. He could take a wild guess as to what.

"You're feeling better now, aren't you?" she chirped.

"Better?" Tragg set down his cup and leaned back in the chair. "About what?"

"Oh, you." Lucy plopped down at a chair nearly across from him. "Lieutenant Drumm just called. He said he wanted to make sure he had the right information for dinner tonight! You're going to dinner with him?"

"It's a group thing," Tragg said. "Everyone's going, to celebrate the end of the case."

"And you didn't say a word!" Lucy shook her head. Recovering swiftly, she leaned forward with her hands on her knees. "You _are_ feeling better. I know it!"

At last Tragg smiled. "Yes, I am," he conceded. "I finally accepted that I had to put the past behind me and move forward. Funny thing is, it was a man who lost much more than I did to make me see that. Even his own life." At Lucy's expression he chuckled. "I'll tell you about it someday."

"And I'd like to know . . . someday," Lucy said. "But right now I'm just so thankful I have you back." She got up from the table and gave him a quick hug.

"Well . . ." Surprised at first, Tragg then returned it. He felt good, better than he had in a long time.

xxxx

Jerry and Mike were quiet as they left Perry's office, each caught up in his own thoughts. They had not had much chance for conversation since Portman's capture. Most of the time had been spent with them being examined by licensed doctors to determine their states and what could be done for them.

"Mike," Jerry said at last, "you seem different than you did before."

"What do you expect?" Mike retorted. "The chip's deactivated. I'm a free man again."

"That's not what I mean." Jerry gave him a sidelong glance. "The last time we were able to talk in private you acted cold and hard. And you acted like we could never be friends again. Do you feel different now?"

Mike gave a resigned sigh. "Well . . . you already managed to piece together that I was partially trying to protect you when I said that," he said. "And the rest . . ." He raised his arms and then dropped them. "It doesn't seem important anymore.

"As far as I'm concerned, we're friends again."

"Even after what I did?" Jerry clenched a fist. "Portman really managed to get to me with her drug. I thought I wanted to kill you. I _tried_ to_._"

"You didn't try very hard," Mike pointed out. "Anyway, you said yourself that we were both being manipulated by her. Let's just call it even, shall we? And move on."

Jerry smiled. "Yes," he said. "Let's do that."

He had the feeling they really could.

xxxx

Mignon had left to take Howie home when another, somewhat hesitant, knock came at Hamilton's office door. He looked up in surprise. "Come in?"

The door opened and Paul was standing there, with an odd mixture of sheepish guilt and awkwardness on his face. "Hey."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Paul, what in the name of . . ."

Paul entered, shutting the door behind him. "I need to tell you something," he said, all of a sudden blunt.

"Well, fine," Hamilton said. "When you look like that, I wish you would."

"I really was just putting on an act the other day, when Jerry and I escaped from Portman's place." Paul dropped his hands to his sides. "But she was trying to get to me. And I won't deny that she stuck some doubts in my head. I got past them, by the way. I want you to know that, too.

"But when I was trying to make Portman's goons think I was serious, I accused you and Perry collectively of using me and then singled you out first. It didn't go any further because they shot at Jerry about then. I would have specifically accused Perry too, if I'd had to." He drew a deep breath. "But I went after you first on purpose."

"Go on." Hamilton watched him, a bit puzzled as to where this was going. And, perhaps, dreading it a bit as well.

"I guess I half-thought that would be more believable," Paul said. "Portman knew about everything, including the . . . the trouble we've had. But that wasn't the only reason I did it." His shoulders slumped and he looked guilty again. "I think I mainly thought that, between you and Perry, if neither of you had figured out it was an act, you might not take it as hard. And maybe I'm wrong about that, I don't know." He gestured wildly with his hands. "I didn't have much time to think it out back then. But later, when it started sinking in, I remembered what you'd said that time we argued at the hospital and I wondered . . ."

"Paul." Hamilton got up, distinctly relieved now. ". . . I thought maybe you were going to say it was because you were really wondering if what you accused me of the other day is true. It's not, by the way."

"I know," Paul said. It was a relief of his own to realize that he really did.

"And I did at least suspect it was an act," Hamilton continued. "Perry figured it out first, but it made sense to me."

"Well, that's good." But Paul still hesitated. ". . . What if you hadn't figured that out, though?"

Hamilton considered the question. "I don't know," he admitted. "If I'd thought you were serious, I would have been upset. Hurt, too. But I can't say if I would've taken it harder than Perry. I don't even know what you were going to accuse Perry of doing."

Paul nodded. "And that's something I'm going to take up with Perry. Probably. If I bring it up at all."

"Maybe it would be better just to drop it," Hamilton said. "Nobody knows other than you and Portman. And Jerry, I guess. And unless it's something you're really starting to believe, it might save some needlessly hurt feelings to keep it that way."

"Yeah, maybe." Paul did not feel close enough to Hamilton to delve deeper into the matter, but he still wondered if it should be approached. He could not deny that he had felt upset when it sometimes seemed that he was not being considered as much as the clients. But he knew Perry cared. Portman had just been trying to warp things all around. Maybe Hamilton was right and it would be better to leave it alone.

"Of course, if it's something that's really bothering you, you should go ahead and say it," Hamilton went on. "Friends shouldn't have secret resentments between them. You know I always advocate saying what you really feel."

"Yeah, I know." Paul moved for the door. "Well, thanks. I just wanted to let you know where we stand."

"That's a lot, coming from you," Hamilton said.

Paul really was making an effort. Maybe, Hamilton hoped, they would be able to continue pursuing this idea of forging a friendship.

xxxx

"What a case this has been."

Perry looked up from adjusting his tie as Della entered his office, complete with evening gown and fur stole for the dinner gathering. "Oh?" he greeted. "How do you mean?"

Della regarded him in amazement. "Mad scientists, dead men being brought back to life, mind-controlling drugs and chips. . . . I feel like I've been living in a science-fiction thriller for the last few days!"

Perry smiled and got up from his desk. "Don't forget old friends finally being able to patch up their misunderstandings," he said. "They've been on the outs for nearly twenty years. I'd say they've made some very significant steps in the right direction."

"You're right," Della agreed. "No matter what happened to bring them to that point, it's a blessing that they've made it. I just hope things will be better for them from now on."

"So do I. They both deserve it.

"And I see you were right, Della."

"Right?" Della blinked. "About what?"

"You were certain that Captain Caldwell wasn't a fraud," Perry elaborated. "Even when it seemed too impossible to be true, you believed it—and him."

"You shouldn't ever doubt a woman's intuition," Della said with a playful and satisfied smile.

"I suppose I shouldn't," Perry agreed. "It certainly came through this time." He smiled at his long-time secretary and dear friend. "Shall we go, Miss Street?"

Della extended her arm. "I'd be happy to, Mr. Mason."

As Perry escorted her to the door, Paul suddenly opened it. They all regarded each other in surprise.

"Well, I'm just on time," Paul declared.

"And we'll all be late if we don't hurry," Perry said. Although he still wondered what Paul had been upset about, this was not the time to ask. Especially when Paul was doing his best to make everything appear normal. Maybe it was something he would rather not discuss at all. So Perry asked a much different question instead. "Are you riding with us, Paul?"

"I was just coming to see if you'd like to ride with me for a change," Paul said. "My car's all gassed up and ready to go."

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Perry smiled. "What do you think, Della?"

"An evening of having our own private chauffeur?" Della half-teased. "I'm all for that."

"Alright then," Paul said grandly. "Then we're off."

The three friends left the office building, each more than ready for a few hours of relaxation and fun. Their latest case had been bizarre, and had left them with more than a few unanswered questions and some lingering uneasiness, but for a while they could put it all aside and be grateful that all had turned out relatively well.

In the end, good had again triumphed.


End file.
